


The red velvet box

by mee4ever



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Maze, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Bottom Newt, Consent Issues, Depression, Dubious Consent, Explicit Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Talking, and latar, i hate tagging bc i never know what to write, it'll progress into minewt, loads of talking, newtmas is a thing, thomas is a fucking douche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mee4ever/pseuds/mee4ever
Summary: “Fuck,” Newt says as Thomas pulls off his helmet. “Isn’t he just too gorgeous?”Minho looks up and follows Newt’s gaze. “Who, Thomas?” They both look at him as he talks to his team, gesturing with intent and Minho continues, “He’s all sweaty.”It shows off every piece of muscle there is to be found in his body; there are so many pieces Newt doesn’t know where to look. “I know,” he says dreamily and bites his thumb.“Don’t fall for the straight boys,” Minho discourages.“Ahhh,” Newt says with a smirk, giving Minho a short glance before he turns his hungry eyes towards Thomas again. “Too bloody late for that.Or the one where Newt has the hots for the lacrosse captain, things turn out for the worse but Minho is there to help him up again.





	1. Isn’t he just too gorgeous?

**Author's Note:**

> My amazing best friend [Lovi](http://crybabydraco.tumblr.com/) prompted, I don't even remember what the prompt was except for Newtmas turning into Minewt and angsttttt. Which is exactly what this fic is. She has helped me with scenes and general motivation as I have gotten stuck. Thanks babe <3  
> I wrote this fic during the past two weeks, super ill. There might be inconsistencies or other weird quirks because of this.  
> This first chapter is beta read by [amandafredlovesmusic](http://amandafredlovesmusic.tumblr.com/) and [bronwen-davies](http://bronwen-davies.tumblr.com/), thanks for that!  
> Any and all remaining errors are entierly my own!  
> I have decided to spilt this fic into 7 chapters, despite it being written as a oneshot. I just like the flow better with a little pause in between happenings. I will be going away from home for a week tomorrow, so I don't know if I'll be able to upload, but everything is written so if nothing else, it will be continued with one chapter/day when I get home!

“Fuck,” Newt says as Thomas pulls off his helmet. “Isn’t he just too gorgeous?”

The lacrosse team’s captain looks unusually fit today; his hair sticking to his temples, his calf extra defined as he puts his foot on top of an upside down turned racket and his arms bursting in a shirt that’s just slightly too small for him. When he pulls up the hem of said shirt to wipe his face, Newt keens in his seat because: _hello_ happy trail! Newt wouldn’t mind getting personally acquainted with it. With any part of Thomas he could get his hands on, really.

Minho looks up and follows Newt’s gaze. “Who, Thomas?” They both look at him as he talks to his team, gesturing with intent and Minho continues, “He’s all sweaty.”

It shows off every piece of muscle there is to be found in his body; there are so many pieces Newt doesn’t know where to look. “I _know_ ,” he says dreamily and bites his thumb.

“Don’t fall for the straight boys,” Minho discourages.

“Ahhh,” Newt says with a smirk, giving Minho a short glance before he turns his hungry eyes towards Thomas again. “Too bloody late for that. Too bloody late.” And who is to say Thomas is straight anyway? Sure, last year he’d been screwing around, a lot, with girls and ended up dating Teresa for a few months, but Minho, better than anyone, should know there are more sexualities than just straight and gay, seeing as he himself is bi. Maybe Thomas is too. They can’t know. But Newt can dream.

Minho pokes him in the side. “Dude, someone’s gonna notice.”

“Let ‘em.”

Minho sighs. “Newt, as much I think it’s wonderful you feel comfortable enough with your sexual preferences, I don’t want to scrape what would be remaining of you off the pavement, if you got beat by the lacrosse team for staring a little too intently. Chose your battles, please.”

Newt doesn’t listen. Instead, when Thomas comes forward, to drink and simultaneously pour water all over his face (Newt might fantasize it’s something other than water splashing over his face but that’s another story), the only thing Newt does is lean his elbows on his knees and keeps staring. They sit quite high, so he’s still a pretty far distance away, but he can pinpoint the exact moment Thomas catches him looking. And Newt doesn’t look away. Thomas shoots his eyebrows up, shaking his head slightly to ask something somewhere between “what’s your problem?” and “something you want?”. Newt nods, a Nod, that if Thomas understands, will be very interesting. He doesn’t seem to because he looks around like maybe someone else has an explanation but he finds no one, so he just rolls his eyes, shakes his head and throws his helmet back on before sprinting across the field, leaving a perfect view of his ass in his way. Newt shrugs, leans back in his seat, puts his feet up on the one in front of him and feels very pleased with himself anyway. Minho gives him a scrutinizing stare.

“Relax,” Newt says and pats his knee. “I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Minho says and he sighs again when Newt laughs.

~~

“Hey,” Minho tells him, “don’t forget your knee brace tomorrow, yeah? I didn’t bust my ass to get you back on _track_ just for you to skip out on practice.”

Newt rolls his eyes and focuses back on his shoes. “That was _one_ time, Minho. Have some faith.” Minho grins and points at him as if to tell him he’ll regret it if he doesn’t bring it then he leaves with a slight wave and a “byeeee”. Newt looks to the ceiling and wonders where he found such a fucking dork. He vows for the millionth time to never study with him again. He opens the apartment door and freezes in his step because the laugh that echoes in the apartment building’s staircase is one he has memorized; one he could probably recognize anywhere. Thomas. If laughter could stop wars… His voice is trailing off, so Newt steps out and closes Minho’s door as silently as he can. He manages to see Thomas and another guy just disappear up a stair but Newt’s pretty sure none of them saw _him._ His curiosity and common obsession with the lacrosse captain make him lean back against the door, and stay put.

“You’re not serious,” the stranger's voice echoes and Thomas laughs again. Newt keens.

“Yes! Completely serious! Never seen a teacher drop her mouth that quickly.”

“You're so mean,” the second boy says and Newt stares at the stairs because if that wasn’t said like a total come-on, Newt had grown a third arm and a second head and started calling himself Zaphod.

It’s interesting how Thomas just replies, “I say you better embrace who you are.”  Their steps die out, Newt holds his breath. He doesn’t want them to realize that someone else can hear them, and it wouldn't be hard because they’re just on the floor above him.

The unfamiliar voice says, “This is mine.”

“Cool.” A jumble of keys rattles.

“Fair warning,” Newt hears the guy say as the right key goes in the lock, “if you fall in love with me, you’re shit out of luck.”

Thomas replies, “If I wanted to fall in love, I’d fuck a girl.” The guy’s laugh echoes in the stairwell and then the door is shut behind the two boys, leaving Newt alone, staring, mouth agape and probably looking very much like a comic character who was just told that the love of their life is actually their cousin. Thomas Stephens, captain of the lacrosse team, one of the straights and Newt’s undeniable love interest, just went into an apartment to fuck a dude. Just like it’s another Wednesday night. Newt twists around and rumbles into the apartment again, yelling, “Minho, you’ll never fucking _believe…!”_

~~

Newt doesn't tell Minho that he’s going to Thomas’ game. It’s mostly because he doesn’t want Minho to discourage him, because he’s still not convinced Thomas is going to take advances in a good way, but what does he know anyway? He knows just as much as Newt, which is that Thomas has explicitly stated girls aren't the only people he fucks and Newt is going to try to take advantage of that knowledge the best he bloody can, thank you very much. He also doesn't tell Minho because it’s slightly embarrassing to go see a lacrosse game when he has absolutely zero interest in the sport.

Afterwards, he’s… lurking when happy jocks (because they won, apparently) start rolling out of the school. Not really sure what he's doing, or what his plan will be when Thomas arrives, he waits. He can probably figure something out. Problem is, Thomas doesn’t come. Newt frowns while searching the burgundy mass of teenage boys but his crush is nowhere among them.

It is only luck that he overhears someone tell a new member of the team that the captain always stays behind after a game, to have a one on one with the coach. No one notices Newt when he slips into the school building just after the last players of the team walk out.

The locker rooms are not far away and Newt can hear Coach and Thomas talking when he sneaks into there. They’re in Coach's office, so Newt waits, leaning against the wall just by the hallway door. He cares little for lacrosse except for one special player 02 - the game had only been bearable because he could stare at Thomas throughout - so he doesn’t go up to the office door to listen in. They’re probably just talking tactics and Newt has tactics of his own he rather spend brain capacity on. He doesn’t have a plan. Like none at all. This opportunity is just too good to give up, Thomas - who seems very much into sleeping with dudes - alone, after school. It’s almost too good to be true, so Newt tries to prepare for utter rejection but it’s hard when he thinks of what might ensue, and then Thomas walks into the room. Newt pushes off the wall and Thomas nods at him after closing Coach’s door. Very closely looking like a Nod.

“Watcha want, Isaacs?” Thomas asks as he goes to stand before his locker.

Newt shrugs and follows him, leans against the locker beside Thomas’. “Nothing special,” he answers. Thomas just gives him a look before grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling it off. Newt can feel his throat constrict, he’s not been this close to a shirtless Thomas despite seeing him shirtless a few times. It’s a _sight._

“Do you mind?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Newt responds and tears his eyes from Thomas’ stomach and perfect abs to his face. This time, there’s no other way for Thomas to interpret it, no hidden meanings, just plain and simple. Newt’s heart races, this is it, this is when he’s getting punched in the face with a fist or, more hopefully, with a mouth. Thomas snorts and arches an eyebrow. Then his gaze moves from Newt’s face to roam his body from head to toe. He even cocks his head to be able to see Newt completely from behind the opened locker door. Newt knows he’s not ugly. He’s lean, he’s got a fine face, he knows how to handle his hair, he can dress better than at least ninety-four percent of the whole male student population in this school, he knows he’s _pretty_. The question is, whether Thomas finds this to be his type.

Thomas doesn’t say anything when his inspection is done, he just pulls a clean shirt on, grabs his things out of the locker and slams the door. He casually gestures between the two of them. “Alright,” he says.

Newt stands frozen in place as Thomas turns on his heel and starts moving towards the door. “Are you coming?” he asks with a look over his shoulder. “We’re not doing it _here_.”

Newt feels a slightly disbelieving grin spread and of course he follows Thomas. _Nothing_ could stop him. He springs up to Thomas and falls into step beside him. “Good game,” he says and Thomas turns a knowing smile at him. Newt doesn’t die, but he feels like he can’t breathe nonetheless.

“Thanks. We’re going to win state this year.”

“Hasn’t the season only just started?”

Thomas snorts. “Yeah, and we just had our first win. Do you know how many years since we took our first game?” Newt shakes his head. “ _Seven_ ,” Thomas tells him, with emphasis.

“All hail the captain,” Newt says and salutes him.

Thomas laughs and says that it at least isn’t their Coach’s merit. They’re in the school parking lot, and Thomas clicks his car key to unlock a red Honda before he gestures to the passenger seat to Newt.

“Get in,” he says as he throws his bag in the trunk, and it sounds more inviting than demanding. Newt gets in.

“You didn’t want to celebrate the win?” Newt asks as they buckle in, feeling slightly self-conscious.

Smirking, Thomas only says, “I thought we were?” before roaring the engine and pulling away from the curb.

The ride to Thomas’ place is a carousel of butterflies and Newt _actually_ talking to the man his life has more or less revolved around for the last couple of months. He wants to pinch himself, but he doesn’t dare because if it’s a dream, he sure as hell is going to find out where it leads before he jerks himself awake. It’s also a rather short ride; which means that soon it’s over and Thomas is packing out his stuff and they enter a house at least two times the size of the one Newt lives in. No wonder this boy knows how to dress, he really has the _funds_ to know how to. Thomas yells a “HELLO?” that is answered by a girl’s voice from an adjacent room. Thomas rolls his eyes at Newt and pops his head out from behind a wall.

“‘Sup, sis?” he asks. Newt takes a couple of steps forward and Thomas’ freshman sister sits by a dinner table, slurping cereal and giving Newt a look from behind a book.

“Who that?” she asks and Thomas looks at Newt too.

“Newt,” he says. “New friend.” Thomas dumps his gear in the hallway and continues, “Don’t disturb, we’re gonna study.”

“I’m sure,” she says and goes back to her cereal and book without giving them another care. Thomas grins at Newt, who can’t but feel his anticipation increase with every step they take towards Thomas’ room.

Thomas lives in the downstairs, it’s almost like a basement because it goes mostly underground, with small windows just below the ceiling, but his room looks like any other room despite it. That’s all Newt has time to see, before Thomas closes the door behind him and then he’s suddenly stepping close to Newt. And Newt, with all his confidence and faith that everything would eventually lead to this, just as suddenly feels way out of his depths. He’s never done this before, he’s never…

Then Thomas kisses him. A firm press, full of intent and Newt melts into it. He’s been dreaming about this, fantasised about it, wanted it, for so long, so to actually have it feels like he might combust immediately. Maybe he’s shaking, he doesn’t know, but there are hands on his hips, pressing him closer. He realises that Thomas is just wearing thin shorts and a thin shirt, that he is most definitely planning on removing those. Newt’s nervousness rises; fuck, what has he gotten himself into? He can barely contain it when Thomas just looks good on a normal day and now, here they are, _kissing._ Thomas doesn’t notice that Newt’s nervous, he just kisses, tugs, roams his hand over clothes and soon enough finds his way underneath them. The touch is dizzying, Newt groans and the sound makes Thomas work his fingers faster up under Newt’s shirt and soon enough, Newt finds his clothes in a pile on the floor. He’s too caught up to be able to return the favour, so Thomas, impatiently, gets out of his own clothes too. He drags Newt off to the bed, and once he tumbles down in it, Thomas fitting himself on top of Newt, squaring him in with arms and legs, Newt thinks maybe he’s gone to heaven. Thomas’ hot chest is pressed to Newt’s, Thomas’ hands are in Newt’s hair, Thomas’ tongue is in Newt’s mouth. Newt snakes his arms around Thomas’ torso and presses Thomas against himself, their growing erections rubbing together in such a way that makes Thomas puff a small breath before he rolls his hips. Bucking up against the friction, Newt throws his head back and Thomas’ gives up chasing his mouth and goes straight to his neck instead, kissing, sucking.

“Fuck,” Newt breathes.

“Sure,” Thomas says and emphasizes with another roll of his hips. They’re still in their underwear but Newt has a feeling that won’t last for long either. Thomas weaves his fingers into Newt’s hair and with a slight tug, he makes Newt move his head back down so he can press wet kisses to his lips. There’s no way Newt can complain, kissing is awesome and Thomas is a bloody brilliant kisser. All of him is bloody brilliant. Newt can’t think of anything other than how much he just wants, right now, and Thomas doesn’t seem to have his mind anywhere else. Thomas is the one to break the kiss, to trail looser ones down Newt’s chest and stomach and despite Newt having set his eyes on Thomas’ happy trail first; it is Thomas that gets acquainted with Newt’s first. Newt, cannot breathe. His crush has his face above his crotch, on his way to get Newt stark naked and Newt doesn't panic, but he goes completely blank. How in the fuck did he manage to get this lucky? How in the fuck is he going to do this? He’s not oblivious to this, he’s a teenage boy with a laptop and internet access, but in real life? Holy shit, he’s so not prepared for anything like this.

Then he is naked. And Thomas is naked. So much skin everywhere, so much heat, so much, so much. Newt’s on his back, Thomas sits on the soles of his own feet, between Newt’s legs; the underside of Newt’s thighs are pressed to the upper side Thomas’ thighs. Thomas grabs at him, at his arse, at his thighs, at his hips and then at his knees to pull him closer, into a better angle. Newt doesn’t know where he’s keeping his own hands, all he knows is that this is happening and he doesn’t know what to do. The ‘pop’ of a bottle opening makes Newt breathe out harshly.

Stuttering, feeling like a total virgin-loser, he says, “Thomas, I… I’ve never…”

“It’s cool.” Thomas lays a hand on the inside of his thigh. ”I’ve got it covered, pretty boy.”

Newt blushes, a flush that goes all the way from the tips of his ears down to his navel, but Thomas only gives him a sly grin. Unable to hold his gaze, Newt closes his eyes and tries to just breathe. It’s harder than ever because Thomas has taken Newt’s cock in his hand, he’s literally stroking him, making Newt feel like the world revolves around him and them. Newt whines, withers. Thomas groans, goes a little faster and starts circling a finger to Newt’s entrance. It’s a sudden rush of cold, of unexpectancy, so Newt jerks a little.

“Just relax,” Thomas says, like it’s _that easy_. Thomas doesn’t push, doesn’t force it, so Newt lays there, breathing, unbelievably and frustratingly trying to just focus on how good it feels rather than how awkward it is. Newt’s fisting the sheets once Thomas pushes inside him, finger coaxing and Newt gasps, and gasps, and gasps.

“Fucking hell,” Thomas murmurs, but it sounds like approval so Newt relaxes around him as they stay still for a moment, the unfamiliar feeling maybe not full pleasure, but of promise. Experimentally, he pushes back against Thomas’ finger and the other boy’s ragged breath is more reward that anything else.

Gruffly, Thomas proclaims, “Want you.”

“Have me,” Newt responds and the other boy wastes no time waiting after that. He moves, thrusts his finger, pulls it almost all the way out and then back in again and it feels strange, so strange, but it’s starting to also feel pretty good. The second finger is furthermore unexpected and its intrusion makes Newt cry out.

Thomas shushes him. “Relax, relax…” and as he keeps going, Newt eventually does relax, moving together with Thomas. Newt doesn’t know for how long this lasts, just this preparation but he can tell when it’s _done._ Because then Thomas pulls his fingers out and the feeling is uncomfortable and Thomas has a condom rolled on before Newt can even blink.

“Wait,” Newt says.

“What?”

“I just…” Thomas gives him a superior look, like he knows what he’s doing and Newt should just roll with it. “Nothing,” he says and lets Thomas push in. He does it swiftly and hard, Newt was not prepared and he feels like he might black out of the intensity.

Thomas mumbles, “So tight, so tight,” and Newt wants to tell him _no shit, Sherlock,_ but then he starts moving. Quickly falling into a steady rhythm and Newt figures that Thomas _does_ know what he’s doing. And he’s doing good. He holds Newt’s hips again, bringing him down on his cock as he thrusts, making Newt glide slightly up and down the sheets, everything's making noises; the bed, the linen, their bodies, their mouths. Newt didn't know you could feel your whole body like this, like he’s on some other plane of existence, like Thomas is touching him everywhere all at once.

As a first time doing this, it is also slightly uncomfortable, it burns, yet Newt wouldn’t really want to change a single thing. He loves it. He loves Thomas too, so maybe that’s why he just loves it even more. His whole body feels heavy with want and need, he can barely hold onto the sheets because his hand are trembling and all he can do is stare at Thomas through half lidded eyes and take whatever Thomas gives him. _So fucking beautiful._

On a regular basis, Thomas’ glistening muscles has Newt uncomfortably hard in his pants. Thomas’ completely naked body, shining because of the effort it takes to _fuck Newt_ is making Newt achingly hard without his pants.

When it gets too much to handle, New whines, “Thomas, Thoma… _please_ …” and Thomas grunts before releasing one of his hands from Newt’s waist and wrapping it around Newt’s cock instead, jacking him fast and hard and Newt - who has no self-control, especially while being jerked off _and_ fucked by the boy of his dreams - comes in a matter of seconds. He shakes though it, without making a sound but he’s biting the pillow so that's probably why; he doesn’t know what to do with himself because everything just feels too good.

The most amazing thing, though, is when Thomas comes. He does so when Newt tenses through his orgasm, he does so in three long, slow and erratic thrusts, he does so growling and scrunching his face and looking like he might start to cry. He shoves into Newt one final time with an utterly pleased sound, making Newt spasm and sob. With a small chuckle, Thomas then falls forward, his head landing around Newt’s collarbone and they stay like that, catching up with their breathing, for a while; Thomas still inside of Newt.

“You’re amazing,” Newt says and Thomas angles his head up, snorts.

“Must admit, this wasn’t half bad.”

Newt surges forward, captures Thomas’ lips in a hazy kiss. Thomas lets him but when Newt starts just pecking him over and over, he pulls away.

“Ey, ey,” Thomas says with a laugh that has Newt falling for him again. “Don’t get all lovesick on me like a _girl_.”

Newt snorts a little. “Are you gay?” he asks then.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m a ‘double your options’-kind of guy. It’d be easier to just fuck girls, though,” he says, “but girls aren’t easy.”

Newt nods. He doesn't care for girls. He doesn't know shit about them.

When Thomas finally pulls out, Newt is glad he stayed inside for so long, because despite pulling out completely soft (and therefore _way_ less thick than when erect) it leaves Newt feeling empty and slightly ripped apart. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t want to seem fragile or needy. Thomas leaves him for a quick shower and he offers one for Newt when he comes back, towel around his hips and hair dripping. Newt forces himself not to stare, and accepts. Once he’s closing the bathroom door, he takes a breath before looking at himself in the mirror. His hair is a _mess,_ his lips slightly red and a little puffy, there are a couple of very faint marks on his neck. He can’t help but smile when he thinks about the fact that _Thomas Stephens_ made him look like this.

When he comes out again, Thomas is sitting on the bed, phone in his hand and he nods to a pile of clothes on the foot of bed. Newt’s clothes. Newt pulls them on, while Thomas looks, feeling rather proud that even in the state of getting dressed, Thomas likes the look of him.

“Good celebration,” Thomas says with a smirk when Newt has gotten completely dressed again.

Newt grins. “We should celebrate more often,” he says.

Thomas looks at him, cocks his head and narrows his eyes slightly, as if he’s seeing Newt in a new light. “Got somewhere you need to be?” he asks instead of responding to Newt’s statement. “I could drive you home, if you need.”

Newt isn’t disappointed, because it wasn’t a “no”, but he had hoped for a slightly more spelt out “yes”.

“Yeah,” he says. “If that’s cool with you.” He doesn’t know what time it is, it’s probably getting late and someone at home might actually start to wonder.

So Thomas drives him home, only engaging in small chit-chatter and Newt is worn out enough to let it stay at that.

They pull up to Newt’s house after Newt’s given a few directions and when Newt gets out, Thomas says as goodbye, “See you around, Isaacs,” and if nothing else has tipped him off on how Thomas sees their encounter; this should make it clear, but it only makes Newt’s stomach flutter. Thomas drives off and Newt watches after him. Tired, fucked and so bloody _happy_.


	2. I wouldn't risk anything to be with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm too lazy to wait for betas tbh. don flame tha story hahahhaha no i love you pls comment

The track team are all tying their shoes by the bleachers as the lacrosse team runs out on the field, loud and obnoxious and so _male_ and despite being gay, Newt puts his nose in the air. They’re ridiculous. He only crumbles as a very special, virginity-taking, hot bod comes through the masses with a slow pace, like he owns the place, like he’s the Leader, with capital L. He’s the _captain_ , but that is almost the same. Minho notices him looking, like he always notices when Newt has his eyes on Thomas, and he makes the last knot with a sort of annoyed ferocity. Newt has completely forgotten his laces. Leaning towards his best friend, without looking at him, Newt says, “Fucked him.”

Minho stares at him, voice low and thin as he asks, _“What”?_

Newt shrugs. “Or, he fucked me, whatever.”

Newt Nods towards Thomas when he manages to catch the other boy’s gaze and Thomas, who really should understand what the fuck Newt’s on about, looks at him like  _Newt_ is a kid that doesn’t understand anything. Newt frowns. That was not the reaction he’d… expected.

“You wanna go or you wanna stay here and drool?” Minho asks and Newt tears his eyes from the back of Thomas' head to look at Minho and then behind him. The rest of their team has already taken off and with Newt’s knee, there’s no way he’ll catch up. He stands. At least Minho’s nice enough to jog with him, even if he could take the regular lap way faster without him.

“Coming, coming,” he says and they’re off.

Minho’s unbelievably quiet. He’s very sluggish as well; usually he runs some extra intervals, ten meters in front of Newt and then back ten meters behind him and ten meters in front and so on, just to work out enough, as well as he usually works a lot on his footwork because he can take the time to take many, but super small steps. He always talks, encourages, tells Newt he’s doing better or teases him that he’s being slow. Today, he just… jogs. And he’s doing so slow that it’s almost _him_ that sets the pace rather than Newt. Newt doesn’t know what is up but he’s basically exploding, wanting to tell Minho _everything_ about the late night celebration he engaged in on Friday.

“Are you _seriously_ not gonna ask?” he asks once they reach the halfway mark. Minho turns his head so rapidly he looks like he’d forgotten Newt was even there. Rude.

“Sure,” he says, not sighing but looking like he wants to, “tell me.”

Newt ignores how unenthusiastic Minho sounds and makes sure to put a lot of flourishing details in there, flaking out the whole encounter and Minho at least has the decency to hum and nod. Newt really takes his time because he’s just finished once they’re back at the bleachers, the rest of the team stretching and doing their individually set exercises. Newt picks out 02 from the burgundy line of attackers before sitting down and taking his knee support off.

“How did you guys… like, _meet_?” Minho asks finally joining the conversation like a normal person.

Newt kneads his leg. It isn't hurting too bad. “I caught him after the game.”

“You went to see a lacrosse game?”

Newt nods, pouring water down his throat. “Yeah, so?”

Minho not so carefully exclaims, “You _hate_ lacrosse.”

“Don’t hate Thomas, though,” he says with a grin. Minho shakes his head so Newt slaps his arm and promises not to exchange track for any contact sport. Unless sex counts, but that he’ll just have as a complement.

Minho frowns. “Why did you wait all weekend to tell me?”

Newt rolls his eyes. “I wanted to tell you in person. I _did_ tell you I had something I wanted to talk about!” Minho looks away at that, muttering something inaudible. “I’m sure you’re gonna call me immediately after your next sexual encounter; I’ll make sure to hang up.” Minho purses his lips and Newt wants to ask what the hell his problem is. Instead, he slaps his knee support back on and stands up next to Minho, who cast him a glance before offering a shoulder. Finally, there’s a little bit of the Minho Newt actually knows and Newt puts his arm on his shoulder for balance as he carefully stretches his bad leg’s thigh.

“You know,” Newt says after a while as he twists around, stretching his other leg and turns his head towards Minho, “I kinda expected you to be a bit more… happy for me, I guess?”

Minho looks at him with a serious face when he answers, “Of course I’m happy for you. It’s just… He’s not out. And I know that might be a stupid reason to object, but I don’t want you to ignore the fact that you put great value in you being out. I don’t want you to have to hide ‘cause of a guy; the business of getting out, and not dying in the process, has been too significant for that.”

Newt understands where he's coming from but does not agree. “I’m not back in the closet,” he says soberly. “Just cause I might not be able to date him openly, doesn't mean I, for some reason, can’t be open with who I am.”

“I know, I know. Sorry, I just…” Minho sighs - god, he does that a lot nowadays - and shakes himself. “I’m being a very unsupportive friend right now, aren’t I?” he says with a small, apologetic smile.

“Yes,” Newt says and grins, “but I forgive you.” He squeezes Minho shoulder and the rest of the work out passes by with Minho much less cranky.

~~

He didn’t lie when he said he wouldn’t mind being discreet without thumbing on his own queerness, but… Thomas has not approached Newt even once this week and it’s already Wednesday afternoon. It’s not like Newt would expect him to act like they’re friends, they’re not, or sit with him at lunch, but maybe a hi? An acknowledgement of existence? It wouldn’t even have had to been in front of people, he could've just sought Newt out when he was alone. But no. Thomas has done no such thing. So Newt decides not to be chicken, to step up to the plate and approach Thomas first.

This time when he doesn’t have a plan, it doesn’t go as well. First and foremost because he steps up to the other boy when he’s not alone. Surrounded by burgundy letterman jackets and a couple of cheerleading uniforms, there falls a quiet over the group as Newt suddenly stands before them.

Newt half panics. “Has anyone of you ever thought about joining track?” he asks and he hopes his voice sounds steadier than it is.

“Not when there’s a cripple on the team,” a guy, that is insignificant enough that Newt has never learned his name, says. The squad laughs as Newt turns his attention to said boy and he laughs short too.

“No, of course,” he says with feigned understanding, “I see how your frail little macho ego would shatter after being outrun by someone with a busted knee.” The boys burst out a collective “uuuhhhh” and hollers towards their friend and the nameless boy looks baffled. Newt grins, pleased that he could make the whole popular crowd roar in his favour. Not that he _cares_ about the popular-

“Move on, Isaacs,” Thomas says dismissively without even looking _bothered_ and Newt shrugs (but oh, how he wants to stare the captain down) and does as he’s told.

New plan. _Actual_ plan, is what Newt needs.

Then Thomas does seek him out alone. He wolf-whistles to get Newt’s attention as he stands by his locker and then gestures for him to follow. It’s just before last period and Newt would really need to leave for class. Thomas disappears into a classroom door and Newt, after checking around, slips in behind him.

“The fuck you playing at?” Thomas holds a hand out as to emphasize his statement and Newt just looks at him. He doesn’t know what to say, he hasn’t figured out the plan yet, shit. Thomas moves his hand to point at Newt, and his voice goes dangerously low when he continues. “I don’t know how you came to know, but as the situation looks, you clearly weren’t _supposed_ to know about me. You used that knowledge and we had some fun but if you come up to me like that again, in school, because you think we have any sort of ‘connection’ or I have some sort of obligation to you, you’re painfully mistaken and I will literally beat the shit out of you.”

Newt stares at him, his body feeling like it has been dropped from a three story building and he can still not come up with a single thing to say. He hadn’t thought Thomas would magically be head over heels for him, but he _had_ thought that maybe they did have a connection, something… a little bit more meaningful than _this._

“I thought…”

Thomas scoffs when he doesn’t continue. “You thought wrong, kid. I didn’t fuck you because I have deep emotional feelings for you; I fucked you because I like fucking. This is why I _hate_ sleeping with girls, they don’t understand, they always think you gotta date ‘cause they sucked your cock once.” He puts a hand on Newt’s shoulder and the touch feels electrifying. Newt’s boat is rocking and he isn’t wearing a life jacket.  Thomas makes sure Newt looks him in the eye as he says, “Read my lips: I want no relationship. I fuck boys, Isaacs, because they understand that.” Thomas lets go of him and Newt lowers his gaze, crossing his arms, but it must not look defiant; rather pitiful because Thomas decides to keep talking. “What did you think was gonna happen? Huh? That we were gonna date? Hold hands, walk into the sunset? Slow dancing at prom? Isaacs, you may be a great many things, but I wouldn’t _risk_ anything to be with you.”

Newt hears himself ask, “Would you want to be with me?”

He stares Newt up and down again, just like he’d done the night they got into bed together and the conclusion this time is, “You can fuck a virgin once, but the second time? It’s not really the same, now is it?”

He leaves Newt when the bell rings, without sparing him a last glance and Newt stands there, dumbstruck, feeling like he’s the most stupid kind of stupid there is, feeling like he’s just capsized and realised he cannot swim. He doesn’t go to class, when he finally leaves the room, he goes home.

~~

The humiliation turns to anger over the following night. He stays up for pretty much all of it, buzzing with adrenaline that wants out, wants him to scream and kick and act out. If he manages to get an hour of sleep around four A.M., it doesn't help him much. When he walks to school, he’s practically jumping there because he’s so tired he’s gone into full speed, thinking he will walk up to Thomas absolute first thing and tell him he’s a motherfucking asshole and Newt will not care who sees or hears. He doesn’t care _at all._ Just that Thomas is going to get a piece of Newt’s mind.

To Newt’s annoyance, he cannot find Thomas first thing. Minho catches him and he has to suppress the urge to snap at him and stalk after the Senior squad. It’s probably for the better, though, because Minho calms him down without even knowing it and they head off to class, Minho happily chatting about biology. Newt remembers to tune him in and actually talk to him, and he manages to forget almost all about Thomas. Almost.

It’s just after lunch when Newt does catch him. Alone. Or well, there are people in the corridor, both of the sort Thomas’ hangs with and the sort he does not, but no one is presently _with_ him. Newt is arguably not as mad anymore but he still thinks an apology would be nice. Or at least get the chance to call him shitface. He walks up with rigor he did not know he possessed and he stops in front of the other boy with his head held high.

“Thomas,” he says. Thomas, posture staturelike, does not acknowledge him, not even when Newt waves a hand. “You’re gonna ignore me?” Newt asks with a snort. “ _Very_ mature.” He had expected reluctance, but this is ridiculous. The other boy just puts a book into his locker and grabs another. “You can at least look at me when I talk to you.”

“I don’t need to do shit you say,” Thomas says.

“So, what now, you can’t be bothered to act like a decent human being?” Thomas gives him a look, finally, an ‘if you don’t stop talking you’re gonna regret it’ and Newt knows, he _knows,_ it’s not good but he can’t help himself so he just leans in slightly and says, “Afraid how it might _look_?”

Thomas’ left hand finds Newt’s jaw and it is a shocking pain, pretty much as shocked as the look upon Thomas’ face. Newt has never been hit before and by the look of it, Thomas has never hit anyone before either. It takes a second, one where Newt is just a hole in the universe before he comes back to earth. Then he feels his whole body turn rigid and defiant and when he makes a move to speak there’s a hand balled in his shirt and Thomas’ stares down at him, terrified. There’s a class ring on Thomas’ right hand, Newt gets painfully aware of the fact when it slashes his cheek as Thomas hits him again just as he starts speaking. Newt tumbles into the lockers, Thomas pushing him away like he’s burned and Newt manages to catch himself enough not to fall to the ground. A couple of jocks laugh. Somebody calls out ‘FIGHT’ but Newt is too caught up to know if it’s enthusiastic or troubled. Newt can see Thomas relaxing back into a grin and Newt cannot stop himself when he flies forward and delivers a terribly aimed punch to his chin. It does however turn Thomas’ head and he looks like a ball of rage when he looks back and the third punch does not come from a scared boy in the closet, but from a dangerous man who’s gotten his ego hurt. It comes with a side of kicking and Newt doesn’t know if Thomas cares enough to _choose_ his bad leg, but it is the one he kick anyway. The pain of the punches is nothing to the deafening screech his whole body twists in, and Newt’s on the ground before he can even scream. Then he does scream. Nobody’s laughing. There is someone running, maybe more than one person, and when Thomas kicks him again, while he’s on the ground, spitting something about never wanting someone like Newt ever near him again, it is thankfully his good leg that takes the hit but it isn’t like Newt gets exactly _sad_ when a burgundy sweatshirt flies into Thomas.

“ _Hey!_ The fuck you doing, man?”

Newt knows the guy’s name is Gally and despite being there for Newt’s rescue, Newt hates him.

“Cool your fucking jets, bro,” Gally says and when Thomas makes a move to try and get to Newt again, he just pulls him away. “C’mon, dude, chill.” Then there’s Minho on the floor, sliding up to him on his knees and Newt’s not sure how fucking fast he must’ve run to be able to do that but he doesn’t care. He does his best not to cry but everything hurts and Minho’s scared and concerned look down at him isn’t helping.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asks and they both watch as Thomas walks away with Gally his chaperon. None of them look back. Newt spits that he wants to _murder._ Minho looks down at him again and his ‘I’ll take care of this’-streak kicks in and settles over his face and shoulders. Newt is surprised when it is _Newt_ he decides to take care of rather than Thomas.

“Can you stand?” he asks and looks around. There has gathered up quite the audience despite the fight being over. “Need to get you patched up.”

The statement makes Newt run cold and his hand flies up to his face and when he touches around his eye, it feels swollen and wet and his fingers come back tainted red. Newt, baffled, nods, he can probably stand.

Minho drapes Newt’s arm over his shoulders and puts his own around Newt’s waist and hauls him up. They start to limp away, bad leg doing better than expected.

“Move,” Minho says and it’s not to Newt but Newt’s too dizzy he doesn’t know who it’s for.

“Let the faggots through,” yells the boy Newt still hasn’t bothered to learn the name of. Newt raises his hand to flip him the bird, but Minho swats it away and for once, Newt actually follows his advice. Newt is gonna be a faggot all his goddamned life if he so well pleases, and he will damn please and have a long fucking life, thank you very much.

~~

His whole mind spins so fucking bad he cannot see. It’s not a concussion or anything; he’s just so full of rage he doesn’t know what to do with all of it. “I fucking _hate_ him,” he says and kicks a chair. His knee hurts but he doesn't care. He just wishes it was Thomas’s face. “I want to kick his fucking teeth in.” He pushes the chair so it falls over. “I should’ve punched him harder, him and that other fucker what’s-his-name and that Gally and-”

“Hey, hey,” Minho says and slams a first aid kit down on a desk. “Gally dragged Thomas’ ass off, he did the best he could.”

Newt is so shocked he forgets to be angry at Thomas; he momentarily redirects his anger towards Minho instead. “Are you… fucking _kidding me_ right now? _That’s_ what you want to focus on here?”

“No, I…” but he doesn’t continue. “Sit your ass down,” he commands instead. Newt grumbles, but obliges, sitting down on a chair in front of Minho who soon leans forward and dabs his injury with sanitizer. It stings and Newt shies away, cursing. Minho puts a soft hand atop Newt’s and Newt lets him. He sits fairly still as Minho works. Newt feels the anger wash off him together with the blood and potential germs and he feels ashamed for having screamed at Minho.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I felt like you took their side. Shouldn’t have shouted.”

Minho nods. “Gally’s gay, alright?” he says and Newt looks up. “He’s gay, he’s one of the good guys, he probably took one look at the two of you and figured it all out since he knows you’re gay. You need to believe me when I say that Gally, did everything he could.”

Wrinkling his nose, Newt asks, “You slept with a _lacrosse_ player?”

“Funnily enough, Newt,” Minho says sourly, “you’re not the only one who has.” Minho looks away and picks up a package of band-aids from his kit. “Do you want Superman or Barbie?” he asks and totally ignores any further attempts Newt tries to talk about Gally, or more specifically, _Minho_ and Gally.

“What high school doesn’t have white-nude bandages,” Minho asks himself and goes through the kit one more time. Triumphantly, he comes back up with a thin roll of beige bandage and Newt just gives him a blank stare. Minho’s never talked about Gally, never about any unnamed lacrosse player either, Minho’s generally as reluctant to them as Newt, but how he talked about him… Newt wonders if maybe they had been a bit more serious than “slept with”. Newt doesn't like the feeling of not knowing, especially since Minho’s supposed to be his best friend and Minho told him all about Harriet when they were a thing. Not that Newt had particularly _liked_ hearing about that and he’s not so sure he would've liked hearing about _Gally_ like that but Minho should've told him, shouldn’t he? Just like hinting on the fact that he was seeing someone. Oh god, are they seeing each other _now_? Does Minho have a secret boyfriend he hasn't even told Newt about?

“Are you dating him?” Newt asks and Minho sighs while getting up and he finally breaks.

“No,” he says, “I’m not.” He moves to the front desk and opens a couple of drawers before he finds a pair of scissors. He opens and closes them a couple of times before coming back up to Newt.

He focuses intently on cutting the band aid so Newt says, “But you would like to?”

Minho closes his eyes and sighs again, somehow looking sad rather than annoyed. “At one point, yeah, maybe, but not now. No.” He doesn't look Newt in the eye when he says it and it makes Newt foolishly think that he’s lying. He doesn’t understand why, but he doesn’t push it. If Minho doesn’t want to talk about it, fine, don’t talk about it. Newt doesn’t care anyway. Maybe he cares _a little,_  but still. Minho’s choice if he wants to lie about it. Minho holds his chin as he gently presses a small patch of band-aid to the gash on Newt’s cheek. Fuck, maybe he cares a lot.

“Thomas is a fucking ass,” Minho says, disrupting his thoughts, and despite tending to a wound precisely beside Newt’s eye, he manages not to meet his gaze. “You should stay away from him.”

“You don’t even know half of it,” Newt says and Minho visibly flinches. Newt frowns. “He said some shitty stuff yesterday, that’s all,” he reassures.

Minho nods slowly, then puts a final piece of band-aid to Newt’s face before taking a breath. “All patched up.”

Newt carefully touches his eye socket, it hurts like a son of a bitch. “Thanks,” he says. Minho reaches out and takes his hand. Newt gives him a small smile and holds on, like Minho is a lifeline. What would he ever do without him?

“I love you,” Minho says.

And Newt, sighing, says, “I love you too,” because he doesn’t in this moment understand that Minho says it in another way than a best friend normally would.


	3. Backseat driver

His phone rings and it’s Thomas calling him on facebook. Without Newt’s permission, his pulse races; the fucking bastard beat Newt up last week and yet his name on a screen, actively seeking Newt out, makes his heart clench. He picks up.

“Isaacs,” Thomas says and there’s noise all around him, he’s probably in his car. “You home? I’m on my way over.”

“Yeah,” Newt says tentatively after a second, “yeah, I’m home.”

“Good, good,” Thomas says and hangs up. Newt stares at his screen. Thomas has never talked to him before on facebook, so it only tells him about the nine seconds long call they just had and that they’ve been friends on there for six years. Long before high school, because in middle school it was actually cool to be friends with everyone and not so many people had chosen to become douchebags yet.

Newt snorts without thinking anything is funny. “He better fucking apologize,” he says to himself.

The ten minutes it takes for Thomas to get there and ring the doorbell rolls over with Newt having absolutely no idea in hell what to do with. He’s thankfully alone; or, he wonders, with Thomas being Thomas, if that might be a bad thing. He sits on his bed, jumping his good leg when the loud bell scares him and shakes him to the bone, _he better fucking apologize_ , and Newt gets up and makes his way to the front door. He better fucking apologize, he better fucking apologize, he… better… fucking… Thomas is just standing there: leaning against the porch railing in his old letterman jacket, looking like your typical high school hot boy and Newt just stares. He can’t even make himself stop, and he wants to stop, god, does he want to _stop,_ but Thomas is Thomas and Newt, Newt’s fucked either way. Without a word, without a greeting or any apology, Thomas pushes off the railing and walks up the last steps and he passes Newt, stepping inside without invitation, with a look on his face that says: I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to like it. Newt is frozen in place for a second, his mind in a fierce debate before he takes a quick breath and closes the door behind them.  

He leads the way to his room, skittish and unsteady, unable to say no. Thomas drops his jacket on the floor and he tugs off his shirt as he gives Newt another look. Newt, who cannot help himself, steps up to Thomas and when Thomas gets Newt’s shirt off too, Newt helps him. And fuckedy fuck, Newt is unbuckling Thomas’ belt; he didn’t even mean to and Thomas smirks at him because he _knows_ Newt wants this, wants him. Thomas only needs to pull the strap in Newt’s sweats and Newt just steps out of them as they fall to the floor, legs feeling like thick caramel.

For a second he disassociates with the whole situation. He thinks about the look in Thomas’ eyes as he delivered the third punch, the one that was not panicked, the one that was of malice and intent. He thinks about tears streaming down his face and his best friend wiping them away so carefully because he can see that Newt’s face hurts. He thinks about Thomas saying he would never risk anything to be with him, and about Minho telling him that he shouldn’t have to risk himself being with Thomas.

When he comes back to reality, it’s because Thomas twists him around and presses up to him, chest to Newt’s back, hard-on to Newt’s ass, a hand splayed over Newt’s stomach and the other trailing up over his throat. Newt turns his head to the side and Thomas’ face is right there, breathing on his cheek. He can’t not like this. It’s the hand around his abdomen that Thomas moves then, coming up over Newt’s shoulder and he drags his thumb over Newt’s lower lip before popping it into his own mouth. It makes a filthy sound when he wets his finger and Newt knows, he understands, when Thomas drags his hand away again, only to push it down the back of Newt’s underwear, but he still stops breathing. Thomas forces inside of him immediately; Newt drops his head back against Thomas’ shoulder with a harsh breath and the grip around his throat tightens, just a little.

Thomas grinds against him as he fingers him with short, restrained strokes, but it doesn’t take long before saliva just isn’t efficient enough. “Got somethin’ better?” he asks and Newt, _thank god,_ does. Newt only has time to get his bottle of lube out of a drawer before Thomas manhandles him down flat on his stomach on his bed, getting his underwear out of the picture and soon pushing into him again, now with his thumb slicked but still too big. Newt whines, Thomas doesn’t care. He prods shallowly and quickly, like he’s running out of time or that he just can’t be bothered that things like this _take_ time. Or, they should. Thomas adds another finger. He keeps his thumb at constant pressure, unmoving, stretching, and just fucks Newt with the second finger, growing more and more impatient. Newt’s doing the best he can to keep up but everything Thomas does is just fast and unpredictable.

Before long, he displays how displeased this whole thing makes him by saying, ”Fuck this,” under his breath, slipping his fingers out, slipping out of his own boxers. Sliding his hands around Newt’s thighs instead and pulling him upwards, Thomas urges, “Up, up.”

Despite questioning it - because fact is: he’s definitely not ready to get fucked yet - Newt moves to stand on all fours. Thomas has slightly different plans and when Newt has moved so that he’s putting his weight on his knees, Thomas’ hand is in his hair, grabbing then pushing and Newt has no choice but to put his head down on the mattress again, arms limp and ass in the air. Thomas doesn’t actually say “Stay there” but the action speaks louder than any statement could, and he keeps Newt down so it’s not like Newt could move away anyway; Newt feels misused and exploited. Then Thomas rips a condom packet with his teeth, rolls it on with his only free hand and Newt doesn’t even have time to say Thomas’ name before he’s nudging the head of his cock inside. And he spreads Newt open further by pushing in, an inch before pulling out to push in again, an inch deeper than the time before, and doing so over and over, moaning for every bit he can get deeper inside. It hurts, Newt cries into the duvet his head is pushed down against; it’s humiliating and Newt hates it but it gets him so hard, it makes him so full of need so he takes it. He takes and takes, Thomas stretching him open with his cock, while he murmurs, “So tight for me.” Newt doesn't dare to scream at him it’s because he didn’t prep him enough because maybe then Thomas will stop and leave him.

Only when he bottoms out does he finally give Newt a few seconds to acclimatise with the situation. They both breathe deep and loud; Newt can feel Thomas’ breath on his spine. It makes him shiver and quirk and that, in turn, makes Thomas grip his hair tighter, silently telling him to be still. Newt complies, breathes and tries to focus on feeling filled rather than that he’s filling a purpose.

Thomas slowly pulls out and back in again, stirring Newt into a quiet moan. Ruffling Newt’s hair like he’s a _good boy,_ Thomas repeats the action, growling when Newt moans louder. Thomas finally lets go of his hair in favor of his hips and Newt doesn’t know which is worse: to have to be in this position by force, or to find himself staying here when he technically can move. The thrusting is reasonably paced but Newt heads spins because he’s already feeling so sore. He’s aching, hating this, he loves it, craves it, wants it to end and never to stop.

“You love this, don't you?” Thomas asks suddenly, sounding like he demands a positive answer.

Newt gulps, “Yes,” before he can stop himself and he cannot see Thomas’ face even as he tries turning his head but by the next question, he can tell that the older boy is grinning.

He drives into him, hard and then he asks, “You’ve never been fucked like this, have you?”

“No,” Newt whimpers and Thomas laughs, giving a couple of quick thrusts before the final strike.   

“You’re such a _slut_ for me, aren’t you?” and he stops, almost all the way pulled out until Newt sobs _“Yes”_ and then he rams into him again with no mercy, nails digging into Newt’s thighs which makes Newt arch his back, a sniffling mess. Thomas fucks him like a toy after that: too quick and hard to be for anything but for only his own pleasure and release. Newt bottoms but it’s Thomas who takes, coming without caring whether Newt does or not in the process. Newt does come, but it’s mostly because his body can’t seem to be handling the stimuli without doing so rather than him feeling ready for it and wanting it.

This time, Thomas doesn’t wait before he pulls out and the motion and emptiness punches all air from Newt’s lungs. He gulps for breaths, shaking, as Thomas gets the condom off, knots it and looks around for a place to dispose of it. He thankfully finds Newt’s waste basket, and he throws it there. Sitting down on the bed, Thomas snatches the roll of paper Newt has under his bedside table and cleans himself from any remaining cum.

Newt looks at the back of his head; his messy, slightly curly hair, his naked back. He wants to reach out to touch. He doesn’t. “I thought I wasn’t good enough to have again,” he says quietly.

Thomas looks at him over his shoulder and simply replies, "You were good for now." He leans down to the floor and picks up his abandoned underwear and gets dressed again, standing as he does so. Newt wants to sit up, get under the covers, anything, but he doesn’t know if he has the capacity, so he just looks on as Thomas finds the rest of his clothes, putting them back on. The letterman jacket sits over his shoulders before Newt realises that Thomas is just about to leave.

“You haven’t even… apologized for _beating_ me.”

Thomas holds up for a second, looking down at Newt on the bed. “This should’ve been apology enough,” he says with a shrug and then he leaves. Newt lies on his bed, staring after him, feeling used and dehumanized, he’s in pain and he’s so weak he couldn’t even tell Thomas to fuck off. He’s wired so wrong he came despite all of this, he _liked it_ and he’s just such a fucking slut for letting any and all of it be done to him. He feels sick. His bad knee hurts like shit after depending on it for so long, his ass hurts beyond belief; he’s wet with drying cum, he’s _stupid_. There’s a storm shaking his mind and Newt doesn’t have a lifeboat. He was thrown away, beaten and left, and still Thomas found a way to just have him again.

It is when he realises that they didn’t even kiss one single time, that he starts to cry.

~~

No one can know about it. That’s the deal you enter when you sleep with a “straight” boy and Newt broke that deal last time by telling Minho. This time, Newt won’t tell a single, living, breathing soul. He will pretend that he has had sex with Thomas Stephens exactly one time and that’s that.

Like an old friend jumping into the back of your car, shame settles around his shoulders. It doesn’t tell him the same things this time, it has moved on from those things, it has found new ones that Newt should beat himself up about. Newt, who has fought that shame so hard, now doesn’t know what to tell it. He has nothing against this, he can just agree, nod and fall into it’s hands because he _was_ stupid, he _is_ disturbed for having still been into it, everything _is_ his fault. There’s no one else to blame, there’s no one else. Just Newt, and his humiliation and deep need to get rid of it and the inevitable hunger it will drag along with it. And alongside shame, comes Minho’s voice in the back of his head and it keeps reminding him that it really is his own fault; Minho was weary about Thomas from day one and told Newt he was, and that Newt should’ve listened. He should’ve _listened_. It’s his own fault. He’s so stupid for doing this to himself. Just so fucking stupid.

It takes a week. Minho’s the only one who notices a shift, but he asks only once and when Newt tells him it’s nothing, he doesn’t press it or ask more. Newt doesn’t know if it’s a relief or alarming that he doesn’t, but he refuses to bring up the subject himself so at least it’s something, that he doesn’t have to talk about anything. He doesn’t know how he could, Minho wouldn’t ever look at him the same. So the week passes, and Newt knows he’s being stupid when he skips a couple of classes and when he smokes on the breaks or when he runs too fast for his leg to be perfectly okay with it. He knows, and he also knows he’s stupid anyway so what’s a little more?

Then shame starts playing back-seat driver and Newt starts keeping his red velvet box in his backpack again instead of in his sock drawer.

Newt doesn’t open it, doesn’t acknowledges that it’s there, but it stays there for the week. And then the week after. Minho has started to give him looks, like he feels like he should ask but doesn’t want to and Newt tries to not give him any reasons to do so, so he makes sure Minho doesn’t know about the detentions he’s getting, doesn’t let him see him smoke or smell it on him and he freaks out that time Minho wants a gum and starts reaching for Newt’s bag to see if he has any. He doesn’t keep it there because he wants to, he does it because he needs to. He doesn’t think Minho would understand that. He doesn’t think Minho would understand anything the way Newt understands them. So he starts taking distance from him as well.

It’s not as easy because they’re closer friends now, they’re best friends, and they had been that back then as well but it’s different now. Which makes it all so much harder because it will be so much worse to lose him once he realises what a freak Newt is, what a fucking waste of space he is. So Newt tries to cut him away, piece by piece, before Minho has the chance to break him completely.

Thomas, and just the sight of him, makes Newt seek bathroom refuge.

He’s in the bathroom again now, not crying because it isn't that kind of emotion. It’s all consuming, it’s a black hole that keeps getting bigger and Newt’s sure that if he just pulled his shirt up he would see it, right there in his stomach. How it just eats away at him, drowning him. It is nothing that tears will do anything about; he knows. He’s been here before. Sometimes, when he was younger, he cried anyway. It only made it obvious to him how beyond it he was, how simple and natural ways of filling that hole weren’t enough. Newt wants the pit to be filled, now, but he doesn’t want to fill it. He knows how to, he’s done it before and has the scars to prove it but he doesn't want to. He just wants the feeling gone. He wants the shame to get the fuck out of his imaginary car. He wants to sit down and cry over heartbreak like a normal teenager, he doesn’t want to stand looking himself in the mirror, willing himself not to do anything drastic to ease the ever growing desperation of the manifestation of fear eating away at his core. He doesn’t want to look at himself like this, not when he bares it all, he doesn’t want to face the harsh reality but he forces himself because he wants to make sure he’s still there, still choosing. He wants to get it the fuck together but it feels impossible, unbelievable, like a life he cannot lead. And his gaze keeps slipping from his own eyes to his left arm and no matter how many times he’s managing to drag it up again, eventually it finds its way down one more time. It is useless to succeed a million times, if all it takes is one failure to crash down.

He still has the box in his pack. It’s right there, giving him a chance, giving him an outlet, and for the first time in two years, Newt succumbs to the pleas of a desperate nothingness that threatens to swallow him whole.

~~

He’s managed to get out of practice for quite a while now, blaming everything on complications with his leg and Minho hasn’t been able to stop him. He knows Newt well enough to know that Newt usually just needs some extra training and stretching when the leg acts up, they’ve been at this for two years after all, and one day Minho simply drags his ass off to the bleachers after school instead of asking if Newt wants to come.

Newt’s pretty sure it’s not just extra practice Minho has in mind. He’s been more and more prone to starting conversations with ‘Hey, Newt, I just wanted to ask’ or ‘Is there something you want to talk about?’ and it’s starting to get on Newt’s nerves all the ways he has to get out of those stupid conversations but it has been fairly easy because he has never been alone with him. There have always been other students present, or the team, or even just Minho’s little brother has been in the room adjacent and it has always helped. Now, though. Now Newt is alone with Minho for the first time in forever and Minho has that determined look in his eyes as he gets his shoes on.

It’s the warmest day of the year so far, it’s practically boiling and Newt barely has time to lace his shoes before he must take his hoodie off.

Minho grabs Newt’s arm just as he comes out from under the sweater, a frown on his face, and panicking, Newt jumps and pulls away. His heartbeat picks up as Minho stares at him, or, more correctly, stares at Newt’s upper arm that is, thankfully, covered by t-shirt sleeve.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Newt asks, voice thick.

Minho reaches out again as he says, “On your arm.”

Newt shies away, trying to look annoyed rather than scared. “You know what I have on my arm,” he says. And Minho nods slowly, looking Newt in the eye for a second - and Newt stares him down - before looking away again. At least he’s lowering his arm.

“It looked… It didn’t look old.”

Newt folds his hoodie, violently and hisses, “Yeah, well, they are.”

“Newt-”

“I said: they’re old. Get off my ass.” Then he does the thing you’re not supposed to do: he thinks about it, and it starts to itch, and he scratches a scab before he can even try to stop himself. In doing so, he must show off another one of the marks, and Minho sucks in a breath.

“Newt,” he says, voice low and edging on angered, “we need to talk about this.”

Newt stands up. “There’s absolutely nothing to talk about.” Then he runs off.

Why he went for the track rather than, let's say the bus, he doesn’t know but Minho is soon just behind him.

“Why haven’t you talked to me?” The statement makes Newt almost trip, it is all too familiar, it brings up too many memories. He doesn't even have time to tell Minho he has nothing to talk about before the other continues, “I’m here for you, I thought you knew that? You just gotta talk to me.”

He stops dead in his tracks and turns around, Minho almost running into him. “It’s not worth it, Minho.”

“What’s not worth it?”

“ _I’m_ not worth it.”

Minho frowns and stares Newt straight in the eye. Newt looks away. “Why would you even say that? Of course you’re worth it, you’re… you’re my best friend, no one is more important to me than you.” Newt doesn’t respond to that statement any further than turning on his heel again and starts walking. Minho joins him and after a while of hesitation, he takes Newt’s hand, lacing their finger together. It’s an ‘I’m here’ that makes it hard for Newt to breathe.

“Is it Thomas?” Minho asks quietly. “That he hurt you? Has he hurt you more?”

Newt untangles their fingers and crosses his arms defensively. “I provoked him,” he says. “He didn’t want to have anything to do with me and I didn’t listen and I provoked him so he beat me up. Then I let him fuck me again. In my own bed. It hurt. It was my own fault. It was humiliating and painful and I was just his little plaything because that’s all I’m good enough to be.”

Minho stares at him. “That’s not… You couldn’t... You _are_ better than that.”

Newt stares straight forward and laughs coldly. “But obviously I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, Thomas is a fucking douche and he doesn’t understand the value you have.”

“He understands perfectly; I have _no_ value. I’m just-”

“Newt, don’t say that.”

“It’s true. I’m pathetic and stupid and too broken to be anything but unlovable. I’ve destroyed myself and I am never going to be enough.”

“But you are enough, you’re not-”

Newt stops walking. “Am I, Minho?” He throws his hands out as Minho stops and turns towards him. “Then tell me who the fuck would ever allow themselves to sink so low as to love a fuck-up like me? Huh? I’ll tell you: no one.”

Looking down, Minho starts, “I know for a fact-”

“Oh, for a _fact_?” Newt says mockingly and puts a hand on his heart. “Right, then I simply _must_ believe you and where did you get this fact, if I might ask?”

“Newt…”

Newt walks past him. “Don’t kid yourself, and don’t try to fool me.”

Minho grabs his wrist and yells, “Stop it!” Newt flips around towards him and Minho’s eyes look ferocious. “Just, don't say that, stop, just stop.”

“Why!”

“Because _I_ fucking love you!” Minho says and Newt takes a step back at the force of it alone. Minho lets him go but he refuses to move his gaze.

Newt struggles to find his voice. “What?”

“I’m fucking _in love_ with you.” This time when he says it, he doesn’t do so angrily, he does so truthfully, honestly, openly and it knocks Newt back just as much as the first time. Minho steps up to him, looking like he wants to reach out but refrains from doing so. His gaze flies all around Newt’s face and he says, “So don’t say any of those things, because they aren’t true. You’re not unlovable, you’re not too broken or too much or little of anything. You’re not stupid or unworthy and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially when it is rooted in a guy who doesn’t even know you. _I_ know you. And I love you so much; it breaks my fucking heart and I don’t know what to do with myself when you tell me what that stupid ass motherfucker has said and done to you and how he makes you feel because you deserve better, you deserve good, you deserve great, you deserve someone who treats you right, someone who loves you and wants to be with you.”

Newt holds back his tears by sheer force of will when he says, “But you don't _understand.”_  

Minho looks like he was hit with a brick and left for dead. “What?” he asks desperately and he shakes his hands although they’re already shaking. “What is it that I don’t understand?”

“I _liked_ it!” Newt’s voice breaks and he wipes away tears; he starts moving again, just so Minho can’t look him in the eye and he makes himself continue talking. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life and yet I’ve never been so _hard_ either. I came without him touching me, I fucking hated it and yet I loved it so, yes, I am totally fucking twisted, I’m disturbed and I don’t want you try to convince yourself otherwise.”

“No, Newt, you’re not fucked up because you… responded to being submissive.” Newt casts him a glance and Minho looks at loss, walking beside him. “That’s just, fuck, Thomas is such a… Thomas didn’t do it right. He didn't do it safe, he didn't do it sane and he didn't do it consensual.” Newt looks away at the last word, kicking the ground. Minho holds up and carefully asks, “ _Did_ he ask if he could do anything or did he just do it?”

Newt draws a breath. “He…” but he doesn’t know how to say it, how to repeat what Thomas had asked and what Newt had answered.

”He did ask?” Minho asks, sounding like he can’t really believe it.

Reluctantly, Newt says, “He asked if I liked it and I said yes.”

Minho face grows hard. “When?”

“What do you mean ‘when’?”

“Before, during, after?”

Newt shrugs. “During.”

With a dismissive hand wave Minho declares, “That’s too late. He should’ve asked if you were okay that he was even in the fucking house, he should've asked if it was even okay to come over. Newt, these things are supposed to be explored slowly, openly, a direct line of communication with the opportunity to any time say ‘no’, ‘stop’, ‘wait’ or ‘I need a second’.”

“‘These things’?” Newt asks, shaking his head.

Minho grows quiet for a second before he tries saying something, but no words come out. He tries several times before, “BDSM?” leaves his lips.

Newt frowns. “Whips and chains?” What the fuck does that has to do with any of this? Thomas didn’t tie him up, or hit him, at least not in bed.

“No, no, no, or I mean, some parts, yes, but like, there’s so much more to it. And it’s not like I’m an expert or anything but what you're describing is finding pleasure in the submissive act, not in the fact that Thomas… used you. There’s a clear distinction.”

“I don’t understand this.” Newt shakes his head, it's too much information; it’s too much, period.

“It’s okay,” Minho hurries to say, “we can talk more about it later. Just, you’re not strange or broken because of that. And you don’t have to worry about me going anywhere. I’d do anything for you, Newt. I wouldn't bat an eye if you showed me a body, I’d help. But I can’t do anything to help if that body is _yours_.”

Newt stares at him and realises that Minho has no idea what level he’s on, how bad it is, or more importantly, how bad it _isn’t._ How could he? Newt hasn’t told him shit. “I haven’t- I’m not-” he says and he can’t say it better but Minho visibly relaxes.

“Okay, that’s good,” he says on an exhale.  “That’s good. But you’re still not doing very well and you don’t have to bear it all on your own. You _are_ not alone. So just talk to me. Talk to your psychiatrist. Talk to her again. Talk to her every day. Call her, call me, call your mum, call your sister, do it in the middle of the night, I don't care when. Just, talk to us.”

They’ve managed to walk around the entire track and are back with their regular shoes and bags. Minho brings out his water bottle and drinks half of it in one go before offering it to Newt, who accepts it and takes a sip.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

Newt nods. “Yeah.”

Minho nods too. “We’re not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Newt says and he’s not entirely sure that he does, but it feels better than answering ‘maybe’. Minho grabs his shoulders and Newt only looks up a little to see Minho’s eyes, large and still a little watery.

“I’mma make sure you do,” Minho promises.  “Now, Newt, could we _please_ then _…”_ and he holds his hand on top of Newt’s covered marks and he presses his forehead to Newt’s forehead.

Newt feels his chest constrict, he feels like he can't breathe and he steps away from Minho and rummages through his backpack to find his box. It is an oblong, red velvet box, originally meant for a bracelet, one he obtained from his sister when he needed something inconspicuous. Now, he grabs it with white knuckles and without looking at Minho, he hands it over. When it is no longer in his hand, when it is someplace safe, someplace he can’t get to it, Newt takes a breath and starts to shake. This was his lifeline last time, it has started to become it again and giving it to Minho feels like giving up a part of himself, a part of his life. Jury’s still out on whether it is a good or a bad part that he’s giving up. He looks at Minho when the other boy flips the lid open because he needs to see the look on his face, he needs to know his reaction when he finds what lies inside; this box of secrets, lies, life, and nutrition to a black hole. This box of shame. It contains a disinfected dissecting scalpel that he stole from biology class two and a half years ago. It is silver colored and only metal, it is five inches long with a one inch blade and Newt knows the feel of it in his right hand better than he knows the one of a fork.

Minho blinks down at it. He looks confused, surprised, scared. He breathes slow and loud and he snaps the lid close again after the seconds has rolled by. When he looks up, Newt looks away. “Do you want me to keep it?” he asks and his voice is unsteady, but Newt doesn’t know if it is because he’s angry or disappointed or disgusted. He hadn’t known what Newt used, he cannot know that this is the same one that it's always been, but it feels like he can read the truth of it anyway. That Newt was not strong enough to get rid of it.

“Yes,” Newt manages to answer faintly and he can see in his peripheral vision that Minho nods. He has fallen down on a seat and Newt hesitates in saying anything more but it’s like his mind decodes that telling Minho things is generally good for him and therefore it must be now too. So he carefully sits down next to him. “If I have it, I’ll just put it right here,” he says and puts his index finger to Minho’s bicep, nail against his skin, “and then I’ll twist it.” He twists his finger as far as it’ll go, before twisting it back to the original place. “And if that's not enough, I’ll twist it again, and again. And when that’s not enough, and it never is, I will put it here,” he moves the finger two inches to the left, “and I will do it again.”

Minho is sobbing silently and his hand is shaking again when he takes Newt’s demonstrating finger off of him, fitting their palms over each other, pressing. He doesn’t say anything, which is sort of freaking Newt out but Newt doesn’t know what he wants him to say anyway. Minho knew all of this already, he just wasn’t aware of any specifics but Newt’s afraid maybe the specifics are what counts in the end.

Newt gets up and starts pacing around, and Minho keeps being silent, keeps crying. Newt wants to scream at him again, just so he’ll say something.

“You’re so brave,” Minho tells him, throat thick, as he stands up too and puts a hand on Newt’s elbow. Newt scrunches his face in confusion and finally looks up to meet his gaze. “I know this isn’t easy for you to talk about, any of it, I know that, and I’m so proud of you for doing it anyway.” And Newt can see in his watery eyes that he’s not angry or disgusted or anything Newt had ever thought he’d be; he’s just worried. Newt only gathers him into a fierce hug.

“I love you,” Minho says again and sniffles and Newt can now hear the difference, because this is his best friend telling him he loves him as a friend and Newt feels a bit overwhelmed; Minho doesn’t just love him, he loves him in several different ways. Newt doesn't reply, because he doesn't know which sort would fall out of his own mouth. He just holds on tighter. And finally, he _does_ understand that Minho is not going anywhere.


	4. Why haven't you talked to me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flasback.  
> Explicit talk about suicide.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Newt doesn’t think Minho has ever sounded so little and Newt has known him since he was five. He is grasping on Newt’s hand, there are tears in his eyes. “Why haven’t you _talked_ to me?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Newt says and his throat is dry, his head hurts.

Exasperated, Minho says, “How can I even begin to understand if you won’t tell me what you don’t think I won’t understand?”

“You’re confusing me,” Newt says sleepily and he repeats his initial statement.

“Try me.”

And Newt is hooked up on some seriously good pain killers that make his mind feel swooshy so he says, “You wouldn't understand because you’re not like me. I am broken and disgusting and I didn’t want to be. I want to be normal.” And now his bones are broken too, several of them and he’s nowhere near being less of anything, he’s just… _worse_.

“You’re not… Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth, because not only do I get the urge to carve in my own arm or to cry in the middle of class or panic in the bathroom, no, I have to go around with the urge to touch _boys_ as well. And you wouldn’t understand because you’re a normal guy, Minho, you’re normal and nice and you shouldn’t even be _seen_ with someone like me.”

“NO!” Minho screams it, he stands up beside Newt’s bed and he says it again. “No! You shouldn’t say those things, they're not true.” Newt wishes he could stand up too, but he feels dizzy just thinking about it.

“They’re all true.”

“No, Newt, they’re not.”

“Why not? Tell me why they’re not and why I should believe you?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate a second before he blurts, “Because I like boys too!”

Newt’s brain is too mushy to register that properly, he cannot have heard that correctly. Minho doesn’t… “You… like boys?”

“Yes,” Minho says, nodding, “so if you say that you’re disgusting and broken and I don’t even know, if you say you are, then I must be too.” He says it with his nose in the air, like he knows that such a thing does not apply to him and therefore does not apply to Newt either.

Newt racks his brain. “But you’re not… You… What about that girl, Harriet?”

Minho shakes his head. “I like girls. I like boys the same way.”

“Oh.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Minho says, like it’s the law.

“There isn't? But I’ve never… I… They… In school...”

“Boys in high school are assholes. We’re fifteen, we’re trying to figure things out. It’s normal. You’re completely normal.”

Newt rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and says, “I just tried to kill myself over this, I’m sorry if I can’t just take your word for it.” And afterwards he realises how insensitively put that was, when Minho breaks down crying next to him again, falling to the chair and grabs a tighter hold on Newt’s hand.

But he is broken, nonetheless. You don’t just step off a three story building without being a little broken, do you? It becomes especially clear when it feels like his shoulder are being ripped apart by invisible hands and he aches to give into it, to bleed for the chance of momentary relief.

He wonders whether his red velvet box is still in his bag, the backpack that sits in the chair on the opposite side of the room but he has an IV so he can't just get up and check. Then he remembers his leg, oh, fuck, _his leg,_ and even if the drip wouldn’t keep him in bed, _that_ would. He doesn't dare to ask Minho to get it for him either, especially since the other boy doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.


	5. Never leave

“Can I ask you about something?” Minho asks.

Newt closes his eyes and tells himself that it’s alright, before pleading, “Please don’t start conversations like that, tell me immediately what you want to ask about.”

“Consent,” Minho hurries to say.

Newt puts his pencil down and leans back in his chair. Not the answer he expected. “You’re asking me permission to ask about giving permission?”

The other boy puts his palms to the table as if to steady himself before he says, “Yes, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Newt’s not entirely sure he likes where this conversation is going. He would like to study. For once, he actually wants to engross himself in algebra and have Minho talk about that.

“What you want to ask?”

Minho looks surprised to have even gotten this far. “About Thomas. Generally how you look at it.”

Newt doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to talk about Thomas, he doesn’t want to talk about anything regarding him, he just _doesn’t want to._ “Okay,” he says regardless, because he probably _needs_ to talk about it. “Just… ask questions. I don't want to speak freely.”

Newt stares down in the table after Minho nods and goes into a serious quick fire. “Do you believe consent is just ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think consent can be properly given silently?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think, that because you didn’t say no, you silently told Thomas yes?”

“Yes.”

“To a question he didn’t ask?”

Newt looks up and Minho looks indignant. Thomas hadn’t asked, not really, but he’d… Newt had helped getting undressed, he’d followed, he’d done what Thomas had wanted him to. “I… He was very clear where we were going without telling me.”

Minho nods and changes approach. “If he would’ve asked you, verbally, if you wanted to have sex, would you have said yes?”

Newt can’t look him in the eye when he answers, “Probably.”

“That hesitance you have there, the not completely yes, hundred percent, he should’ve picked up on that, and he should’ve not done it without making sure you were sure.” Newt cannot make himself look at Minho; he hadn’t been there, he cannot know what had happened, he doesn’t understand that Newt did nothing to stop it. “For the sake of argument, we pretend you would have told him yes and he keeps going: if he had kept asking if things were okay, if he could do this or that, would you have kept giving him positive confirmation?”

“I don’t think… I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Newt thinks that maybe the conversation is over with that, but he’s wrong. Minho doesn’t bite his pen and think hard because he’s trying to remember an answer to a question on the page before him, he’s doing it to find yet another approach.

“Let’s look at it this way,” he finally says and Newt forces himself to keep with him. “Green’ is keep going, ‘yellow’ is slow down or don’t continue until it’s green again, ‘red’ is stop completely. Would there have been a lot of green?”

Newt shakes his head. There _would_ have been green, sure, he knows that, Minho should know that, but not as much as Newt would’ve liked.

“Yellow?” Minho asks.

Newt nods. “Yeah.” Basically all the time, he doesn’t say.

“And would there have been red?”

Newt looks away again before he says, “Several times.”

Minho just nods, jaw tightly set for a moment. “Consent is not a constant,” he says. “It is fluid and it can change color in one second despite nothing in the situation has changed. It is a dialogue on equal footing. Communication is not a side dish that you can order if you feel like it; it is fundamental and sex is nothing without it. Silence isn’t yes; if anything it is no.” When he quiets, Newt feels his shoulders slump, he sinks down in his chair and he refuses to look anywhere than at his hands in his lap.

“Tell me what you're thinking just now?” Minho asks, his voice concerned.

“I feel like you’re lecturing me because I didn't say no,” Newt mumbles after being quiet so long he almost thought Minho was gonna start shouting at him to answer.

“I’m not trying to make you feel worse, or tell you off, I’m sorry I come off that way.” Minho leans over the table, one of his hands outstretched and he looks at Newt when Newt carefully casts him a glance. Newt brings one of his own hands up and puts it in Minho’s palm. “I'm just worried about you,” Minho says and holds on, fingers firm, thumb brushing. “I'm scared you get blinded by your feelings and look past people’s signs of douchebaggery and that they will take advantage of you because of it. I want,” he changes his mind with a little shake of his head and continues, “I _need_ you to know that you have as much say in a sexual situation as your partner, I want you to understand that establishing communication will lead to awesome sex and that if you’re even the slightest bit unsure, you’re supposed to be able to say that and your partner listen.”

Minho looks at him so earnest, Newt doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like he doesn’t know this is how it’s supposed to be, but he realises as they watch for the other’s reaction, that he hadn’t really understood what that meant, how important it was, because here Minho is, having this extremely miserable conversation, because he _needs_ Newt to understand _basics_. And Newt is not just scared over the fact that Thomas didn’t care about these basics, or that Newt _did_ ignore it when Thomas showed obvious signs of not caring; no, he’s also scared because he doesn’t know how to do it right, he doesn’t know what to do if he ever finds himself with another ‘Thomas’.

“What if they don’t?” he asks, almost afraid to do so.

Minho, who breathes out deep, relaxes his shoulders and smiles wistfully. “Hopefully,” he says, “you’ll learn this early on because you’ve started the conversation early, and if they don’t listen, get the hell out.” Newt snorts, but Minho doesn’t move a muscle in his face towards laughing. “If they don’t think your concerns or questions or doubts are worth listening to in an early stage, don’t make the mistake of thinking they’ll do better later.” His gaze is intense enough that Newt nods and Minho nods before he proceeds. “And if you’re really into them and want to do it anyway, set up rules and if they disagree and throw a fit, get out. If they break them deliberately after agreeing, get out. Your well being is worth more than somebody else's idea that you are somehow theirs.”

The statement hits Newt in the chest, he hadn’t know how much Thomas and his second encounter would affect him, but he sees that it definitely could’ve been steered away if their first had gone differently. But... “It’s not so… easy,” he says and Minho presses his hand.

“I’m not saying it is. I’m saying it can be hard and that’s what makes it even more important.”

After a moment of silence, Newt starts, “Could you…” but he stops himself. It’s probably not his place.

“What?” Minho asks and Newt looks at him quickly.

“Tell me about Gally?” he asks and Minho’s face drops.

“Newt…” He says it slowly, sadly, like it’s going to hurt him to tell Newt.

“That bad?” Newt says and Minho sits back up, releases his hand and it feels like he goes on defense. It is Minho’s turn not to look _Newt_ in the eye. He picks up his pencil and plays with it, very much like Newt usually does for anxiety purposes.

“I think, maybe isn’t not ‘that bad’ but rather ‘that good’,” Minho says when he finally answers.

Newt tries not to gape, because that direction had not been one he’d even thought possible. “Did you love him?” he asks and Minho smiles, like Newt’s being stupid.

“No,” he answers. “No, I... He might have loved me. I don’t know. It was... It was messy because it was…” he trailes off and Newt lets it go when he doesn’t continue on that thought, even if he would like to know the rest. “Anyway. We went out one evening, don’t even know how it happened, but by the end of the night, he kissed me, told me I was the most beautiful boy he’d ever met and that he couldn’t date me.”

Newt frowns. “What? Why?”

Minho shrugs and starts doodling, still not looking at Newt. “He wasn’t out, he knew he wouldn’t be out before college and he didn’t want me to be a secret. Said I ‘deserved better’, especially since I had just come out, was proud, all that.”

“You…” but he doesn’t continue, because the look on Minho’s face tells him the answer anyway. Minho had come out in school before Newt had even gotten out of the hospital. Newt hadn’t been there but Minho had told him enough later to know it hadn’t been the easiest walk in the park. In that time, though, Minho hadn’t told him about any of the things he had to go through, obviously hadn’t told him about Gally. He’d kept a brave face, been there for Newt, supported him and everything that he was and Newt feels ashamed over the fact that he hadn’t seen that his friend was hurting too.

“I told him I didn’t need the world to know. If he didn’t want it to, I wouldn’t tell anyone. And, you know, he looked at me and believed me and he just agreed. Maybe he was just as desperate for someone to lean on that I was.”

“You should’ve been able to lean on me.”

Finally, Minho looks at him again and he doesn’t look in any way upset when he says, “Newt, you were in no shape. It wasn’t your fault, I just wanted you to get better and I didn’t want to shatter the small trust you had in me.”

It punches the gut out of Newt and he draws his chair closer to Minho, so he can put a hand on the other boy’s arm. “I trusted you so much, Minho, I still do.” Minho looks up at him through black eyelashes, and Newt thinks his eyes are watered. “I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t trust you.”

“You…” Minho says before stopping, dragging a hand over his eyes and  starting again. “I didn’t want to have to tell you that I was hiding with a boy, because it meant so much to the two of us that I was out of the closet. I didn’t want you to think I had stepped back in again.”

“It’s okay,” Newt promises. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel comfortable talking about it back then. Guess we both kinda sucked at that part.” This is probably the first time they’ve done it properly, Newt thinks.

Minho laughs quietly. “So yeah, I went out with him for a while. I don’t think I was very kind to him, I think I mostly needed a distraction and he allowed himself to be that for me. I don’t think _I_ deserved _him_ , rather than the other way around. And you know that I have… explored, with other guys after him, but he’s the only boy I can say I’ve really been together with.”

Newt nods. He takes his hand off of Minho and leans back in the chair, bumping knees as he says, “When did you break up?”

Minho fumbles, with his hands, his words, his eyes focusing everywhere for a millisecond before roaming on. “Uhm.” He knows the answer, Newt can see it, but he can also see that he isn’t very keen on revealing it. “Few months,” he finally settles on.

Newt squints. “Before or after I came back to school?”

Minho nods miffed and bites his own lips before he reluctantly discloses, “Around the same time.” Newt doesn’t dare ask the reason. He’s not ready to know. “It’s long ago, now,” Minho says.

“Doesn’t take away the fact that he was there for you in a time when I couldn’t be. I’m grateful for that.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so… bitter.

Minho picks up on it. “Newt, I… I know you feel like you’re not enough, but one person can’t always be everything, everywhere.”

He’s not bitter, but he’s jealous, peeved, when he says, “You always can.”

Minho pokes him in the chest before he says, “Maybe it looks like that to you, but you had four nurses when you were in the hospital, two doctors, and after you got out, you have had your physical therapist and your shrink and your sister and your mom. You’ve had the counsel group and the track team and the school’s LGBT-group. You’ve had a lot of people and I’ve been one of them, yeah, but you have needed them all to be here, to get better and most importantly, you’ve had yourself. If you hadn’t accepted the help all these people have offered, it wouldn't have mattered. When I accepted help from Gally, it was because I didn’t want to accept help from you on that subject, just the same way I know you’ve told the brain-lady things you have not told me, because you want to accept her help on those things, but not mine. That’s okay. That’s life. We spread around. It gives everyone breathing space; it gives us stability, should one person suddenly perish or otherwise be unavailable.”

“You've given this some deep thinking haven't you?” Newt says after the rant, staring.

Minho laughs, “Yeah, I haven't had too much homework this semester.”

“That’s why you’ve read up on BDSM as well?” Newt asks and it’s not at all what Minho had expected because he splutters nonsensicals. Newt bumps Minho’s leg again and Minho blushes.

“Well, you know,” he says but he can’t even come up with a better answer than that. Newt, in fact, doesn’t know.

“I don’t,” Newt says. “You obviously didn’t think I had the correct perception.” He raises his eyebrows at the other boy, who flails.

“I… It’s like… Dude, this is so awkward to talk to you about.”

Newt smiles a patronizing smile. “And like this _entire_ conversation hasn’t been super uncomfortable?”

Minho scratches the back of his head, nodding, agreeing, but he says, “Yeah, but this is… different.”

“Why?”

Minho looks at him for a long time but when Newt shrugs his confusion, he finally sighs. “Fine,” he says with an “I give up”-gesture. “What do you want to know?”

“Explain it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Newt laughs. “Is it worse than whips and chains?”

Minho gives him a sour look. “Depends.”

Newt laughs again, more surprised this time. “On what?”

“Whether or not you think what I say is weird.” Newt’s not entirely sure but it sounds like he means whether or not Newt thinks _Minho_ is weird. It just gets him more intrigued on what the fuck this whole thing is actually about.

“Only one way to find out.”

Minho waves his hand around a little as if to pick and choose from a bowl of Skittles before saying, “Domination and submission.”

“Meaning?” Newt’s pretty sure Minho holds an eyeroll back.

“One person dominating the other, different ways of doing it. Usually with bondage and/or discipline involved. Like you said, whips and chains, could be used, the specifics vary from every couple, but I’ve…” he throws Newt a quick look before admitting, “I’ve only tried it with a tie.” He waits a second before adding, “And slapping.”

“Wait, you mean, you’ve gotten tied up and slapped?”

Minho looks stupefied. “Uhm,” he says. “No.”

“But…” Newt frowns. Then it hits him. “Oh.”

“Anyway,” Minho says and his cheeks are redder than Newt has ever seen them, “I only mentioned BDSM because you said you’d responded to a few things that under the right circumstances could fall under that term.”

Nodding, Newt asks, “Submission?”

“Yes, to give the other person have control of you, like how you’re positioned, how or when or whether you come. Also the, ehm, pleasure out of pain and humiliation.” If possible, Minho’s cheeks goes even redder at that.

“Have you… tried that?” Newt asks, slightly scared to but too interested in the answer not to.

Minho nods, once. “When explored consensual, it can be very… interesting.”

Newt looks at him, and Minho looks straight forward. Like he’s lost himself in thoughts for a second, and for that same second, Newt looks at him differently. Not bad differently, more like slightly horny differently, and he catches himself and looks away before it can get awkward. More awkward.

Clearing his throat, Newt asks, “So you think I’d be into that?”

Minho shrugs and keeps not looking at him. “Dunno. Maybe. Just saying you might wanna look into it. And that it’s not a very unusual thing to be into.”

Newt ponders this for a second and he wholeheartedly believes that in the right situation, with the right guy, with the right communication, he’d _definitely_ be into that. “Are the colours metaphor from that?” he asks, because he doesn’t feel like Minho just came up with them on the spot.

“It’s… sort of part of the rules,” Minho nods. “You don’t just tie someone up and hit them without making sure they’re into it and I think they’re a good way to easily know immediately where the other person’s at, at any given moment.” His cheeks pinks up, but he manages to hold Newt’s gaze for pretty much of his answer, so maybe he’s starting to get over it.

“Why not just say ‘no’, or ‘stop’, or ‘wait’?”

“Well,” and Minho’s face goes completely tomato again. “Because sometimes you want to say those things without meaning them.”

“Why?”

“Because, to some people, it can be hot that someone doesn’t care what you want and do what they want. It can be a power-play thing.” It looks like it pains him to say it and Newt purses his lips.

“You into that?” he asks with a smug grin.

Minho’s nonexistent answer is answer enough. “But as you understand, this is very, very much about consent and being first and foremost interested in your partner taking as much pleasure in the act as you do. Maybe even more interested in your partner's pleasure than your own, when you’re a dom, to be honest.”

Newt feels his heart drop and he says, “I don’t think Thomas cared much for my comfort or enjoyment at all.”  

Minho stares into the table when he says, “I’m so sorry for what Thomas put you through. I wish I could make it undone.”

“It’s not your fault,” Newt says.

Minho looks up at him, reaches out again but this time his hand falls onto Newt’s shoulder, just slightly resting upon his neck. He looks Newt in the eye as he says, “And you understand that it’s not your fault either?”

Newt shrugs and looks away. “I mean, I guess, I-”

“It’s not your fault.” The tone of his voice makes Newt look up again, and it’s impossible to look away again once Minho continues. “Thomas is to blame. He didn’t make you feel safe enough to tell him no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I-”

Minho interrupts him. “It’s not your fault. Not at all.”

“Okay.” Minho nods before he releases his grip on him and turns back to his books.

“Let’s fucking study, that’s enough talking for one night.” Newt nods, stunned into silence. He can still feel Minho’s phantom hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring and he doesn’t know what it means when he touches his fingers to the same spot and it makes him almost shudder. He ignores it the best he can and focuses back on his homework, gaze snapping towards his best friend more often than usual because there’s just this feeling working it’s way inside of him and it’s one he doesn't know, one he doesn't understand, one that makes him feel like the world is big and ready for him. He’s not sure if he’s ready for it, though, just yet.

~~

Newt stands smoking - because there’s just so many self-deprecating things you can give up in one afternoon - and minding his own bloody business when Thomas decides to make Newt’s business _him_ for a third time. Newt’s waiting for Minho to finish up an extra training shift, Newt didn’t join but he said he’d wait because Minho wanted to talk. Now he wishes he had waited somewhere else.

He’s probably on his way to a game, Newt thinks when Thomas first steps up, because there’s few students who comes back to their high school once school’s actually out. Newt doesn’t care about the lacrosse schedule, he doesn’t have a reason to anymore, except for the fact that the reason isn’t walking inside but stops at the door. He casts a glance at Newt, three meters away and Newt’s heart is pounding so hard and he debates whether he should just make a break for it and _run._  Instead, he leans against the wall, taking a deep breath and a drag of the cigarette, trying to ignore Thomas.

Then Thomas walks up to him. Predatory and smirking and Newt forces himself to look him in the eye when they’re face to face and he reminds himself in Minho’s voice that Thomas has done things to him, and not Newt to himself.

Thomas steals the cigarette from between Newt lips with a broader grin spreading. Newt’s frozen in place. Thomas’ fine lines and sharp jaw tense as he takes a drag, nodding and bobbing his eyebrows, blowing out and taking another. He holds the breath in for a few seconds before he says, “Let’s have a quick fuck for good luck,” and puts the cigarette back between Newt’s lips followed by a slow exhale.

Newt commands his fingers not to shake, his breathing not to hitch, his voice not to break as he clutches the cigarette, take a long, fine drag and says to Thomas, “Hell, no,” before blowing the smoke in his face. Thomas’ face falls for a second, confused, before the grin is back on.

He takes a small step forward, putting his hand on the wall beside Newt’s head and popping his hip. “C’mon,” he says, coaxing, “I know you like it.” Newt, pressing himself to the wall, takes a step to the right and Thomas’ other hand comes flying up to be put on the wall on the other side of his head, squaring him in and now he’s even closer. “You came so hard, last time,” Thomas says, and Newt stops breathing. The sentence _I wouldn’t risk anything to be with you_ floats around in his head because _this_ , surely, must be risking a lot of things. Newt feels airheaded by the proximity. “I didn’t even have to touch you, and you came crying.”

Newt ducks under his arm and starts moving away. “Fuck off, Thomas.” It comes out more desperate than intended and he thinks that maybe he whines when Thomas grabs his wrist, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, because he’s going to freak out. Thomas’ skin against his skin is not hot but Newt feels like he’s burning, he feels like there’s an ocean wave threatening to drown him, his upper arm hurts, he wants to make it hurt further, he wants to throw up, he cannot see.

“You can’t deny me,” Thomas says and it gives Newt the adrenaline boost he needs to jerk his arm out of Thomas’ grip. He only has time to see the fire in Thomas’ gaze for half a second before Thomas suddenly goes flying. In the blink of an eye, he’s on the ground and Minho fucking Sung stands above him, looking an inch from berserk.

“The fuck’s your problem, Sung?!” Thomas hisses and it looks like it takes him effort when gets up on an elbow. Good, Newt thinks.

“Oh, you’re a lacrosse player, captain,” Minho says, breathing harshly, “you telling me you can’t take a hit, huh, tough guy?” He turns to Newt. “You alright?” Newt stares at him like he’s hung the moon and only nods, afraid words might not be either efficient nor working at the moment.

“You’re a fucking maniac,” Thomas says and Minho looks down at him again, like he’s debating whether to kick him or not. Newt doesn’t reach out or say anything when Minho takes a step towards Thomas’ head. Minho doesn’t kick him, Newt’s actually a bit sad about that, but he does put the tip of his shoe to Thomas’ chest.

“You come near him again,” Minho says with a voice Newt as _never_ heard before, “you’re gonna have to take a little bit more than a tackle, you feel me?”

“That’s none of your business,” Thomas says and Minho moves his foot closer to Thomas’ throat.

“I’m making it my business,” he only responds and then he pushes down, fast and hard and Thomas falls down to the ground again, coughing. Newt stares at the spectacle and he doesn’t realise that Minho has turned to him again, that he’s talking to him before Minho calls out his name. “Let’s get out of here.”

Newt scrambles away from the wall and Minho puts his hand tightly over Newt’s neck when he’s close enough; it feels safe and grounding and Newt lets himself be steered away.

“You really okay?” Minho asks, casting a glance over his shoulder and pressing his thumb into Newt’s tense muscles. This time, Newt shakes his head. His whole body shakes. Minho presses his forehead to Newt’s temple as they tumble on, and says, “I’ve got you. It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

The walk to Minho’s isn’t very long, but it feels like it takes forever because Newt cannot seem to calm down. The tsunami in his mind makes him want to hurl and the only thing that keeps him somewhat presence is Minho breathing beside him, holding him. They take the elevator despite it only being one flight of stairs and the journey makes it even harder to not throw up. When they’re finally inside the door, Minho lets go of him to untie his shoes, but Newt’s just not ready for it. Newt throws his hand out to catch himself on the wall, he thinks he’s falling, he’s dizzy, his head spins.

“I’m falling,” he mumbles and Minho’s hands suddenly holds him up from under his armpits and Newt feels himself just leaning into them, letting go of everything. Minho doesn't have to catch him, he just has to make sure he doesn’t go flying to the floor. He backs Newt up against the wall, not pressing, just holding him there, stabilizing and solidifying.

“See?” he says friendly, “You’re completely still. Nothing’s moving. You’re standing straight up, you’re not falling. I’ve got you.” Newt takes a breath, feeling the wall against his back and Minho’s body against his front, he takes another breath. When he can finally open his eyes and see, he realises they’re standing in the Sung hallway, almost in the corner of the room, with the door still slightly open. Inhale, exhale. Minho’s shampoo in his nose. One more breath and then he starts to cry.

“Hey, let’s get you horizontal,” Minho says into his hair.

“I don’t think I can move,” Newt sobs.

Minho shrugs and says, “That’s alright, just put your feet on my feet.”

Newt pulls back a little so he can see Minho’s face, and the soft smile playing over his lips. “What?”

“Put your feet on my feet.” Newt does and then Minho starts walking, or, starts waggling, towards the bedroom with Newt clutching him and not helping in their cause. Through his tears, Newt starts bubbling with a laugh he didn’t think was possible and Minho grins. “See? No problem.” Newt puts his head back on Minho’s shoulder and helps a little by lifting his feet together with Minho.

“Here we go,” Minho says as he lets Newt down on the bed and Newt, reluctantly, lets go of him. He sits down but he feels so heavy he lies down almost immediately. Minho takes their shoes off now, first Newt’s and then his own.

“I’ll just…” Minho says and points towards the door and Newt feels himself panic.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, like if Minho doesn’t hear him, Newt can’t allow himself to be devastated when he actually does go. But Minho looks at him, when Newt looks up, and he has an expression on his face that is hard to read. Maybe it’s like his heart is breaking. Maybe it’s like he’s falling apart. Maybe it’s just love, Newt thinks, when Minho slides down into the bed next to him and slings an arm around Newt’s torso and pulling him close, whispering that he’ll _never leave, never leave._ Newt holds onto him again and they stay like that. _Never leave._

Minho’s eyes are closed and his breathing has grown deep. Newt moves around a little, Minho’s arm around his waist curls a little further and he frowns, just slightly. It feels good, Newt finally feels calm and collected and he fists a hand in Minho’s shirt while he just stares at his best friend’s throat. Not for any particular reason, his throat is just in the line of sight and Newt doesn’t have anything else to look at. He doesn’t know for how long they’ve been laying here, quiet. It doesn’t matter.

“Minho,” he says, just loud enough so that if he’s awake he’ll hear.

“Mhm.”

“I don’t think I ever… When I look at Thomas, it makes me feel like the world is spinning out of control.” He takes a breath. “And it he done that since day one.”

Minho has opened his eyes and he only says, “Okay,” but it sounds like ‘continue’.

Minho’s thumb rubs at his spine. Newt takes a breath. “And I don’t… think it’s because I… love him; I think it’s because he just has that effect on me. He stirs me. I don’t think it has ever been good, I don’t think that is love, or that it ever was.”

“What do you think it is, then?” Minho adjusts his head on the pillow and Newt looks down.

“I don’t know. I… I don’t want to know.”

They fall quiet again and now it doesn’t feel as comfortable. It doesn’t feel _un_ comfortable, but it feels like Newt just has to say something more, to develope a thought he’s had and nurtured for a while. It’s more of an itch that wants to be scratched, and Newt knows a lot about those. What he doesn’t know, is how to talk about them. And especially, since this is not an itch of which he wants to go away. He clears his throat and tries to start. But he doesn’t know where to so he comes up empty. Minho looks at him, encouraging, and Newt nods for no reason.

He says, “When you told me… that you, you know…”

Minho is quiet for a while longer, searching his face. “That I am… in love with _you_?” he asks and Newt can _feel_ the anticipation pick up a notch.

“Yeah.” He laughs a little, nervous, and scratches his chin. “I was so shocked. It wasn’t the right place or time-”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Minho says and looks away.

“-but you had to say it then, because it was when it mattered the most.” He wants to say thank you, but he feels like it might be the wrong thing, send the wrong message. "I think I might feel the same way.” He says it slowly, deliberately, sincerely. Minho’s looking at him again and his eyes are so wide, so open. “I think I have the entire time but I have just thought of it as the way best friends are supposed to feel for each other, because I’ve felt like that towards you since forever. But now, I feel like it might be bigger than that."

He looks Minho in the eye as he says it, Minho deserves that and Minho looks like he cannot believe his own fucking ears.

“Are you saying that-”

“Yes.”

“ _Holy fuck_.” Newt laughs and bumps his shoulder with his fist. Then they both go quiet. Something shifts. Newt’s not sure if it’s the world or just their friendship, but it doesn’t matter because it means about the same to him. Minho’s looking at his lips and wetting his own, but he hesitates, he waits, and Newt’s fucking done waiting. He smashes his lips to Minho’s. It’s like finally coming home and to be exploring the world at the same time; and Newt feels so serene, like the waves of his mind just gently move across the shore and lulls him quiet. Minho kisses him back, so intensely, but there’s no hurry, no despair. It is true. It is mirth as Minho starts laughing against his lips and Newt feels it bubble up in his throat again as well. He’s kissing his best friend after all and they end up stopping just to laugh the tension off, the remaining thought of Thomas and everything he represents.

“Again,” Newt says then and Minho captures his lips again, again, again, with his hands around Newt’s chin, or stroking his hair or massaging his neck. Newt feels tentative, he keeps his hands fisted in Minho’s shirt until Minho untangles them and hold one of them in his own hand. Then Newt lets his other hand move around a little too, he strokes Minho’s hair and tugs at his ear and drags his nails down Minho’s neck. Just to see how it feels, and what reaction it brings with it.

“I like this,” Minho sighs and it’s the first time in a long time that that sigh is something of content rather than suffering. He pecks Newt’s lips, he pecks his cheek, his chin, his nose, his bloody eyelids and then he snuggles closer, smiling through another kiss. It feels like such a contrast to Thomas’ _don’t get all love sick on me_ that Newt can’t help but get love sick all over Minho. Minho just smiles wider and takes the pecks, the silent love and he looks happy about it. And if they stay like that, making out, giggling, half sleeping and clutching each other, for the rest of the night, who is to say that they can’t?

 


	6. Until I cannot breathe

They don’t talk about it. More specifically: they don’t specify it. What it means, what they are, _if_ they are. They should be, Newt thinks, but he had gotten things pretty twisted with Thomas so he doesn’t trust himself with knowing these things. And although he hadn’t thought Thomas would date him openly and was prepared for that, he still had thought that Thomas would _want_ to date him. With Minho, Newt doesn’t dare to even think about it because he wants it so much. Newt is out, Minho is out, it would mean they could go out and _be_ out together. Not just as two queer friends, but as queer boyfriends and that’s just a little bit too much for Newt to wrap his head around. So he doesn’t bring it up. And Minho doesn’t bring it up the next day either. Or the next. They might be a little bit more… intimate than usual, Minho touches him casually quite a lot more, but he doesn’t kiss him again, he doesn’t hold his hand, he doesn’t even try to. Newt doesn’t know if Minho’s giving him space, or if he genuinely doesn’t want anything else. They just kissed, after all. For a few hours after they’d confessed they loved one another, but they just kissed. Maybe it was just blowing off steam. Newt doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know how to ask about it either.

What he does, however, is talk to his mother. Very unspecific and distant but he makes an effort; and when she asks if he wants to start up weekly therapy again, he says yes, thankful that he didn’t have to bring it up himself. She only nods and hugs him, whispering into his hair that she’s so proud of him for reaching out. Feeling vulnerable and small, he hugs her back and wishes he always understood what undying support he had from people around him.

But he still doesn’t know what to do about his best friend.

The opportunity doesn't present itself as much as Newt makes himself one. He deliberately takes too long to tie his shoes before practice so the both of them stay behind as their team sets off around the track. Minho always waits, today is no different.

“Do you not want to kiss me again?” Newt almost hisses at him suddenly because he doesn’t know how else to say it.

Minho walks into the bench (and says ‘sorry’ to it) before he stammers, “Yes, of course, I want to, yes, why, I, why wouldn’t I?”

Newt stares him down, asking, “So why haven’t you?”

Minho flails a little under Newt’s gaze, it’s endearing, and he shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t want to push you into anything.”

“I thought I made it very clear I wanted to be in something,” Newt says and he’s not entirely sure that it makes sense but he still feels like he’s laying it all out there, for Minho to see. He feels naked. He does what he does best; but he does it differently than normal. “Let’s run,” he says and when he takes off, Minho’s by his side.

“Hey, Newt,” Minho says after a while, “I’m sorry if I made you feel like it was just a one off, or something. I just wanted you to be able to take your time, you know?”

“Telling me that would’ve saved me a bunch of anxiety.”

“Shit,” Minho says and he runs past Newt and stops in front of him, effectively making Newt stop as well. He puts his hands on Newt’s arms and Newt can’t really make himself stop the pout he has worked up. “I never, ever, want to cause you anxiety,” Minho says. “I want to be with you. I want to make you laugh and smile and feel good.”

Newt looks at him, not completely turning his head and not turning the pout entirely into a smile, just because Minho’s starting to look at him like he’s going to crack a laugh at his expression. “Really?” he asks.

“Really really,” Minho says and takes a step forward, putting himself close enough to kiss.

“Really really really?” Newt asks and he cannot stop the smile from spreading as Minho answers with the word four times. Minho makes Newt shut up when he opens his mouth to say it five times, and Newt’s perfectly okay with that. He’s totally okay with that.

“Be my boyfriend?” Minho asks against his lips and Newt feels his own breath hitch.

“For real?”

“For real real,” Minho says and they laugh in each other’s necks, hugging and Minho kisses him again before Newt has caught his breath enough to say ‘yes’.

When they start to run again, Newt’s pretty sure his hair looks like shit and that he’s a slight bit more flushed than usual and he really has a boyfriend. Minho runs intervals the entire rest of the track and it makes Newt feel on top of the world because Minho looks like he’s doing it because he can’t contain the boost of energy he’s gotten.

The rest of the training goes about in a blur of stretching, smiling and fake-pretending he didn’t just look at Minho when Minho not so subtly looks at him.

They’re finished before Newt gives into temptation. Minho throws his head back and drinks from his bottle in big, throat bobbing gulps; Newt stares at him. Reaching out, he puts his hand over Minho’s that is resting on his thigh, testing what sort of reaction it’ll give him, what Minho will do. Minho keeps drinking, but he pops an eye open and looks at Newt with a lopsided smile. His hand twist and he holds onto Newt’s hand. Good reaction. Then suddenly he puts the water bottle down, and he pulls at Newt’s hand, literally dragging him across the bench toward himself and when they’re close enough, Minho plants a kiss on his lips. Just like that. Newt doesn’t know if anyone is watching, but they could be and he doesn’t give a fuck? Minho’s smiling down at him, still slightly out of breath, lips shining, sweat glistening on his forehead and he looks like the embodiment of the word ‘provocative’ and Newt wants to do a little more to him than just kiss him.

The literal cold shower Minho gives him by spraying him with water and laughing at his wet-dog-look doesn’t even stop the thought of _having_ him. Although, Newt drowns Minho in the entire bottle of his own and Minho doesn’t exactly look sad about it. They laugh, kiss with dripping lips and soaked shirts and clammy hands. It’s so easy, Newt thinks he could get lost in it.

It’s not a decision really, when Newt follows Minho home after showers, he just does it. And Minho holds his hand the entire way so Newt doesn’t think that he minds.

No one else is home when they arrive, and the implication of that makes Newt’s stomach drop out in anticipation. He doesn’t just want, he could actually have. Minho talks about something, gesturing wildly, and Newt must admit he doesn’t know what he talks about because his mind cannot stop focusing on how Minho’s arms look in that tight henley, or the way his neck looks when he bends his head, or how how his ass looks as he walks in front of Newt to his room. He can’t help himself, he’s never been allowed, or at least he’s never allowed himself, to just gawk at Minho before and now it’s the only thing he can make himself do.

He backs up against the wall just inside the door till he leans against it, then he waves at the other boy, who’s tidying up clothes from his floor and he says, “Minho.” The other boy looks up at him, and his tiny smirk, with a half-confused sort of look and Newt rests his head back as well. “I want you to push me against this wall, and kiss me until I cannot breathe,” he says.

Minho drops the shirt he’s holding and he has to shake himself before he’s moving towards Newt. “Is that so?” he says once he’s just a step away and Newt nods as Minho flattens against him. The position is very similar to the one Minho put him in when he needed Newt to calm down, but the intention now makes it less steadying, and more frivolous. Minho doesn’t kiss him. He only smirks, wide and with his eyes plastered to Newt’s face and he trails his lips over Newt’s cheek. He does it so carefully, so light, that his breath almost feels more. It’s an interesting combination, the press of Minho’s body and then the featherlight treatment of his face, and Newt keens as Minho’s lips find their way over his lips, just barely grazing, before moving slightly away again. One of Minho’s hands comes up against Newt’s side, chest, neck and finally settles in his hair, scratching a little at his scalp. Newt leans in to the touch and bites his own lip as Minho drags his mouth just in the corner of his mouth.

“I said I wanted you to kiss me, not breathe-” he shudders as Minho nips ever so slightly on his bottom lip, “-on me.”

“It’s called teasing, baby, and you’re shaking just ‘cause of it.” He’s not wrong. Newt can feel his hands tremble and his lip is most definitely doing it too. He tries to lean forward, to catch Minho’s mouth because he feels like it’s impossible to wait any longer, but Minho’s fingers in his hair is suddenly grasping hard, keeping his head against the wall.

“This okay?” he asks, cocking his head.

“Yes,” Newt gasps even though he feels impossibly more impatient. Minho grins and holds Newt’s head in place as he slowly licks the seams of Newt’s parted lips and Newt musters his last self-control not to dart his tongue out to meet Minho’s. The other boy simply cannot realise how much Newt just wants him to kiss him, or he thinks it’s funny to see how far gone he can get him without actually kissing him, because he moves to graze and lick at his throat and Newt flutters his eyes shut.

When Minho finally, _finally,_  fits their mouths together, he does it so deliberately, so unhurried, that Newt’s knees weaken and he starts to feel his increasing pulse in his entire body; he breathes out so sharply through his nose he feels like he loses his breath and Minho just keeps him steady, pressed, kissed. Newt has never felt like he’s fitted so well anywhere than he does against Minho. The hand that is not twisted in Newt’s hair, Minho starts trailing down Newt’s arm, finding his wrist, hand, fingers, and he weaves them together and moves their joined hands to just above Newt’s head, against the cold wall. He untangles them just to press his index and long finger into Newt’s palm and the rest of his fingers tightly hooked around his wrist. Newt tries, once, to move it; Minho keeps him in place. Minho pulls away as to ask something and Newt finds himself saying “green” before Minho even has the chance to produce the question, chasing after his lips because he cannot have Minho stop kissing him now.

“Good boy,” Minho says with a soft laugh, the sound goes straight to Newt’s downstairs and he moans when their lips meet again, when Minho nibbles at the tip of his tongue. The sound makes Minho press harder, closer, and Newt moves his leg so Minho can push his thigh between Newt’s legs. Smart move. Minho kisses him deeper, more resolute and Newt thrives.

“I’m so warm,” Newt whines, he’s burning with lust and his cheeks must be flushed.

“You’re so _hot,”_ Minho says and he has the audacity to dimple when Newt blushes.

“I want to get undressed,” Newt says.

“Do you want me to help you with that?” Minho asks, and he manages to ask it sexyily. Newt wants to learn how to say it like that. That’s a lesson for another day, though, so Newt just nods and Minho gently releases both his hair and his wrist and moves his fingers to sneak them under Newt’s sweater. His fingertips against Newt’s skin makes Newt gasp, and that in turn makes Minho slow down. Fucking tease.

Once Minho has actually gotten the shirt off, Newt shoots his hands forward, pushing under Minho’s shirt and not so gracefully pulling that off too. “Oops,” he says with a one shoulder shrug as Minho looks at him, highly amused. He keeps the expression as he pops the button in Newt’s jeans and it turns more shit-eating when he unzips. Minho bobs his eyebrows once before taking a grasp on Newt’s tight pants and pulling at them, following them down with his whole body. Newt’s head spins as he looks down, and Minho’s grinning back at him, his head so close to Newt’s crotch. Minho pats his ankles and Newt obediently steps out of his pants. His surgery scars aren’t very big, but he feels suddenly self-conscious about them. Minho doesn’t even seem to notice them at all as he puts his lips to Newt’s leg and kisses upwards as he slowly gets up standing again. The last kiss, he places on Newt’s upper mid thigh, wet and hard and Newt’s pretty sure Minho deliberately made it much messier than the rest, just so that Newt will continue feeling it as the saliva cools. Whatever the reason, Newt throws his head back against the wall when he does so, and then Minho’s back to kissing his throat.

“How's the heat?”

“Weakening,” Newt says.

“C’mere,” Minho says and coaxes Newt away from the wall, spins him down to sit on the bed instead. Minho comes to stand in front of him and when Newt looks down, Minho’s hips are sticking out of the jeans he’s _still_ wearing, he believes he’s never before wanted the power of will to demolish something so bad.

“Think these are in the way,” he murmurs and unbuckles Minho’s belt. Minho laughs and bends down to kiss his hair and Newt just gets his jeans open. Minho gets out of them by himself before straddling down over Newt’s lap, Newt rendered numb by the feel of him against his body. Minho smiles at him, drawing their mouths together again and pushes him until his back hits against the mattress, fishing both of Newt’s hands from where they lay motionless beside him and traps them beside his face instead. Newt lets it all happen with awe, his skin against Minho’s skin, trapped underneath him; it’s breathtaking.

“You with me?” Minho asks.

Newt swallows before he says, “I’m floating.” Minho laughs against his shoulder and Newt shakes with a silent laughter. Minho nudges his knee against the inside of Newt’s knee, telling him to scoot so he lays on top of the bed and it takes a few failed tries, and some giggling over it, before Newt finally manages to do so.

Minho positions himself only half on top of him then, one hand roaming over Newt’s chest, down over his stomach and side and up again and the other one holding Newt’s wrist loosely. “Can I touch you?” he asks.

Newt snorts. “You’re already touching me, _very_ much.”

Minho bites his lip. “Newt…”

“Yes, Minho,” he says and his free hand comes up to cup Minho’s face, “touch me, lick me, flick me in the face, I don’t care, just _don’t stop_.” He presses their lips together and Minho groans against him, effectually moving his hand from Newt’s thigh where it has come to rest, up up up and over Newt’s straining underwear, and then down inside of them. Newt curls his hand around Minho’s neck and Minho kisses him slowly, but so deeply, so hungry. He touches Newt _very_ much more than before, a firm grip around him, stroking just fast enough for Newt not to be able to complain but slow enough to have him squirm inscrutably.

Newt yammers when Minho breaks their kiss and starts moving away. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” Minho promises and then he adds, “and if you don’t, you tell me, alright?” Newt nods and thankfully Minho keeps jerking him off as he crawls downwards, removing his underwear before pushing Newt’s legs further apart so he can settle down between then, his mouth to Newt’s inner thigh. He was right. Newt definitely likes it when Minho sucks at his skin, which potentially, hopefully, will leave marks in his wake. He likes it so much he cannot be still and Minho makes it his business to keep Newt in place, which just makes Newt like it ever more.

“Can I suck you off?”

Newt raises his head from the pillow to look down at him. “What did you say?”

“I asked,” Minho says and lays a kiss on his hip, “if I could suck you off?”

Newt stares at him before relaxing his neck so his head falls back onto the pillow. “Uhm, yeah, okay.”

“You don't sound very sure about that,” Minho says easily with a kiss to the other side of his hip, “very yellow. I’ll wait a little.”

“No, no, that’s alright, I just… got a little surprised.” Minho looks at him for another second before nodding and turning his attention back to Newt’s cock. He licks a stripe up Newt’s full length and then kisses the precome off the exposed head. Newt fumbles before finding the bedframe and he holds on because he knows not what else to do; the sensation kicking sparks all over his body, making him twitch.

“Don’t tease,” he wheezes between his teeth.

Minho looks up, a short laugh escapes him before he gives him another stroke and says, “Cocky.”

Newt rolls his eyes but can't hide his smile as he says, “You’re so stupid.”

“I’ll make you stupid,” Minho says and slides his mouth down over Newt’s cock like he’s been starving to. Newt arches off the bed, a silent cry stuck in his throat and one of his hands just flies  from above his head and down in the mattress without him understanding why, until Minho finds said hand with his own and holds it, grounds him. He works him up, drooling saliva all over the place and with a tight grip at the base of his dick, and Newt, who’s never gotten head before, has no idea whether he’s good at what he’s doing or if Newt’s just really fucking easy, because he doesn’t think he’s felt this great in his entire life.

Minho rolls off his cock with a comical ‘plopp’ after a while and asks, “Can I finger you, too?”

Once again, Newt stares down at him. “Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, voice going dangerously airy.

Minho frowns a little, but his cheeks looks flushed. “I just want to make you feel good,” he says - like Newt isn’t _already_ feeling good. “Would you want me to fuck you?”

Newt thinks about that for a second: Minho inside him, fucking him into the mattress, hot and heavy and glistening with sweat. Fuck yeah, he’d want that. “I want to do anything you want to do,” he says because he doesn’t know if that’s something Minho would like.

Minho smiles before he presses his lips to Newt’s length. “I want to get you off,” he moves up and lets his tongue swirl around the dip of the head, “real hard,” he kisses Newt’s slit with wet lips, “do you want that?”

“Yes,” is all Newt can say.  

“Good.” Then Minho moves, sits up and takes a few steps backwards on his knees to the edge of the bed to reach into his desk drawer for a bottle of lube.

“This,” Minho says with a nod down towards Newt as he coats his fingers, “this a good look on you.” Newt hides his face in the crook of his own arm and Minho giggles at him.

“You’re a good look on me,” Newt says and when he sneaks a peek from behind his arm, Minho is pursing his lips like he’s trying to hide the fact that he quite liked that come back.

He sits back down and props Newt’s leg up, bending it and resting it against himself and giving Newt's knee a kiss before saying, “Gonna be cold.” It is only cold for a second, and Minho takes his cock into his mouth in the same moment, so Newt doesn’t even care. Minho keeps his focus mostly on making sure his mouth is doing wonders and he lets his finger work its way inside in natural pace, gently pushing and time for adjustment. When his finger is as deep inside him as it goes, he slides off Newt’s cock one last time just to say, “You can come like this, if you want to,” before sliding back down and holding absolutely nothing back. The time for teasing has gone by but he’s so thorough, he’s so deliberate, he’s so good. Newt whimpers ‘yes’ when Minho rubs him just right and Minho keeps coming back to that place every time he pushes his finger deep enough, making Newt sob and ache for more.

“More,” Newt says, “more more more, _please_.” When he pleads, Minho makes a strangled noise and accommodates his request. A second finger joins the first, pushing at his rim and follows inside soon enough, Newt moaning as it does. All of Minho’s movements goes into a jumble of non-cohesiveness, like he can’t control what he’s doing but it doesn’t matter because Newt’s about as far gone. He’s arching of the bed and Minho does his best to keep him steady but it’s hard when he’s fucking him open and sucks his cock at the same time. Newt cries into the pillow, everything feeling so much, too much, _not enough_ but he can feel, low in his stomach, that he’s gonna come soon anyway. Minho only keeps going as Newt starts breathing in bursts and keeps his promise that Newt could come like this. Because he does; down Minho’s throat in several long strokes, tensing around his fingers and practically howling, and Minho just drinks him in and eases him back down once he’s done. Fingers inside of him, stroking slowly and coaxing out and he slowly slips off his cock in a smooth motion. He chuckles against Newt’s thigh as Newt repeats the word ‘fuck’ under his breath and kisses on all of his skin as he crawls back up to Newt’s face. Newt claims his mouth before he can even try to say anything and kisses him profoundly. It’s greedy, he claws at Minho’s skin and it makes Minho ruck up against him, his hard-on to Newt’s hip over and over and Newt wants nothing more than to have that, have him, right now.

“Minho,” he says sharply, “I really, _really,_  want you to fuck me now.” He doesn’t know where the need comes from; he has never come like this before, so world shattering it’s suddenly hard to formulate a sentence but he wants more, he wants Minho, he wants to feel him inside and know that he’s taking pleasure too.

“Fuck,” Minho says because he can see at least half of Newt’s train of thoughts on his face. “Fuck, okay, yes.” But he dives in for another few minutes of heated make out session, making sure to touch Newt every-fucking-where and having him craving before he bounces back on the bed, removing underwear and fetching a condom out of the same drawer he got the lube.

“Do you need me to-”

“ _No,_ ” Newt says. He doesn’t want to be loose; he wants to be tight and yearning. Minho nods, violently, and Newt’s actually a bit surprised when he gets the condom out of the wrapper in one try, because his hands are trembling out of this world and he also watches Newt more than what his hands are doing. He rolls it on and lubes up and for a second, he rolls his eyes back. Newt realises it’s the first time he’s actually touched his own cock during their whole encounter and it makes him tingly as fuck. Minho grabs him by the hips and angles him back a little, making him wrap his legs around Minho’s body and then Minho lowers himself down over him, chest to chest, searching for his mouth. Newt wraps his arms around Minho’s neck and indulges him.

Minho sounds desperate and he’s already aligned when he asks, “Can I-”

So Newt just interrupts him with a quick kiss before he breathes, “Yes. Yes, yes, super green.” Minho manages to keep his composure fairly decent although he’s practically shaking with anticipation and need. He takes a breath and carefully pushes the head of his cock inside. Newt sucks a breath through his teeth, and it makes Minho cease to move. Newt doesn’t know what sort of will power he’s got going on but he applauds him for having it; Newt has to use a lot of his own not to shove his hips upwards.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” Newt says on an exhale. He’s so fucking alright he think he’s going to explode.

Without moving, Minho asks, “Does it hurt?”

It takes him a second to answer truthfully. “Yes.”

This makes Minho frown. “In... a bad way?” he asks.

“No.”

Looking like the only thing he wants to do is to slam straight into Newt without thinking about anything else, Minho still needs reassurance Newt’s on board. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes.” Newt doesn’t think he can answer more questions, because he doesn't think he’ll understand more questions, when Minho’s just nudged inside him and Newt _knows_ that soon he’ll be so deeply buried inside him.

Newt thinks he’s been very clear with his stand on their current situation, yet something makes Minho say, “Gimme a color.”

“Green,” Newt simply answers and then Minho thrusts into him, slow and stretching and fucking wonderful. It's so different, being filled by him. Newt feels cherished. Close. Equal, despite being underneath, despite bottoming. He feels like _they_ are having sex, rather than Minho is having sex with him. And they are a withering mess of whines and moans and deseperate kissing. Minho keeps his thrusting deep and rhythmical, slow and every time he drives into Newt, it sends shivers down Newt’s spine and drags another sound from his throat.

“You’re doing so good,” Minho says, his lips against Newt cheek.

“Yeah?” Newt asks, voice wrecked.

Minho takes both of Newt’s hands and pins them down beside his head, leaning all his weight on them it gives him good leverage to pick up the pace. “So good,” he says, “you’re doing so good, you’re amazing.”

“I want to be good for you,” Newt whimpers and Minho breathes out sharply.

“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry.” His voice is unsteady and Newt strains against his secured hands, wanting to touch, to touch, but Minho doesn’t let him go. “Gimme a color,” he asks before kissing him swiftly.

“Green,” Newt says because Minho holding him down feels reassuring and safe and despite wanting to touch him, he thinks he probably likes this better anyway. And he fucking loves this, so he doesn’t want to challenge it. Minho keeps fucking him, hard and fast and his mouth hangs close to Newt’s but it’s too difficult to kiss now, both of them just moan it out instead, like a competition on who likes it better. Newt arches and meets Minho’s thrusts, it’s glorious, he’s wailing and keeps him so pressed down whenever he tries to move his hands. He’s lighter than air despite the body pressing him down but it’s not enough, it’s not going to be enough…

“Please,” Newt says, because he _needs._

“Please what?” Minho only answers, although he is panting it.

Newt surges forward to kiss him, but Minho holds away, a knowing smile on his lips. “Please, Minho, I… _please_.”

“I like it when you beg; do you like to beg, Newt?”

Newt feels his body churning at that and he says, “Yellow,” before he can stop himself.

Minho slows down his pace, letting go of one of Newt’s hands and putting his arm under Newt’s arm, around his back, comforting. “It’s alright,” he says, his forehead pressed to Newt’s. “You don’t have to. I won’t ask you to, ‘sall good. All green.”

And Newt realises when he says that last bit, that the colors aren’t just for him; they’re a mutual agreement, they’re for either of them to use and both of them to listen to. “Please,” he says again and Minho grins. But he doesn’t make Newt do it again before he gives in and gives him what he wants; a hand around him and matching the quick pace his thrusts once again has taken.

It doesn’t take long before Newt is involuntarily rocking up against him, so close, so close, so close.

“Come on,” Minho says, “you can come.” He says it like he gives Newt permission to do so and Newt has no idea why that is hot, but it is, and he does come because of it, spilling over Minho’s hand, body convulsing. Smashing their mouths together, breathing so hard through his nose, Minho comes whining just afterwards and Newt gasps down the sounds like he could feed on them alone. Newt’s never experienced something so glorious in his entire life. Minho keeps his eyes closed, lips parted, as he comes down and Newt pets his hair out of his sweaty forehead. He kisses his temple and Minho smiles. Because it was his second time coming, he didn’t come much but it’s enough to make a mess between their bodies and to have soiled Minho’s hand. A hand Minho brings up to his face once his breathing isn’t erratic anymore, studies for a second and then proceeds to clean by swallowing a finger at a time, sucking the cum away and lapping his tongue between his fingers for whatever’s left. Newt stares at him and think he could come a third time just by watching Minho do _that._ Minho looks smug, the fucker knows what he’s doing and he lets Newt needily kiss him once he has finished up. Then he makes a move to pull out and Newt slaps a hand onto his his ass so he can’t, so they keep being pressed together, Minho inside him.

“Stay,” he asks. Minho nuzzles his throat and doesn’t answer but he doesn’t move away either. Once, he thrusts his hips lazily, but he has practically gone soft so nothing really happens. Newt knows the safety precautions and sanitary aspects of using the same condom twice, but he just _wonders if_ he could get Minho worked up and have him fuck him again, without ever pulling out. He doesn't try but it’s a fevering thought.

“Should clean up,” Minho says, voice muffled and his arm around Newt curls tighter.

“Yeah,” Newt answers and they make no effort in letting go of each other.

“Color,” Minho says.

“If I was more green, I’d be a fucking frog.” Minho starts laughing quietly but it turns louder the more he think about what Newt said and then Newt’s laughing too because Minho’s so stupid and amazing and his laugh is infectious. Newt fucking loves his laugh.

“Fine,” he says as they’ve settled again and he pats Minho’s hip, “get out of me.” Minho snorts but complies, slowly. Neet feels hollowed, sore and fucked. He likes it. Minho manages to drag his cock over Newt’s thigh as he moves away, leaving a trail of lube over the skin.

“Gee, thanks, dude,” Newt says and Minho rolls his eyes.

“Careful, or I might do it on purpose next time,” he threatens as he gets the condom off. He pokes a little at his limp dick and Newt cannot contain his laughter. Minho grins at him before nodding to the mess still on Newt’s stomach. “I’ll get you something to clean up with,” he says and he leaves for the bathroom. Newt falls back against the pillows and stares at the ceiling.

Taking a deep breath, he feels the tide pull away, swiping back and leaving him on the beach, looking out over the view and he can’t remember when he felt this calm before. He’s stretched open and tender, left alone after sex and he just… smiles. There’s nothing else he want to do.

Minho comes back and he’s wearing underwear again. Pity. He has brought a damp cloth with him and instead of giving it to Newt, he starts cleaning him himself. He swats Newt’s hand away when he tries to take over saying, “Lemme take care of you,” and Newt lets him. Minho cleans him _everywhere_ and once he’s done, carelessly throwing the cloth on the floor, he’s still holding Newt’s cock in his hand, foreskin pulled back. He bends down and swipes his tongue over the head and Newt is so sensitive, he jerks and slaps Minho’s head away.

“Stop that,” he says but it’s good nurtured and fun.

Minho grumbles, ”You taste good,” and Newt likes the sound of that but he sits up at catches Minho’s lips with his mouth instead, and bites a little at his lower lip. Minho groans happily and he grabs Newt’s hair to pull him closer, make him turn his head so he can kiss him deeper and Newt’s teenage cock starts making itself known again when Minho sucks at his tongue.

“Yeah, okay, no,” Minho says and moves away a couple of feet and reaching down on the floor, ”you’re gonna have to hide your dick, otherwise I'm going it suck it again.” He comes back up again with Newt’s underwear dangling from his index finger and he gives them a spin. When Newt doesn’t immediately take them away from him, he leans forward and puts them over Newt’s head.

“Pretty,” he says with a grin.

“You should be so glad I’m not just here for sex,” Newt says while taking his boxers off his head with as much dignity he can and puts them on.

“I am,” Minho says, in all seriousness. Newt flops down on the bed and puts his arms around Minho before leaning back until they fall back on the mattress again in a tangle of limbs.

“Just kiss me,” he says and Minho doesn't waste time not doing it.

“Serious question,” Minho says suddenly and Newt nods. Minho adjusts himself before looking Newt straight in the eye. “Do you really want me to flick you in the face?”

Newt rolls his eyes and pokes Minho in the side, on the exact spot which makes Minho squeal the loudest and squirm the most, he thinks that dating your best friend has its perks. “Maybe I’ll _let you_ flick me in the face,” he says and Minho grins, like he’ll totally be up for doing that. He settles down on Newt’s shoulder and just holds him. Newt’s very okay with that.

“Hey,” Minho says and nudges his nose to Newt’s throat, “I got you something.” He stands up and Newt kind of forgets what he just said because the view of Minho, only clad in slim boxers, all lean muscles moving as he leans over his desk and digs around in a drawer, is taking up so much brain space it’s almost uncanny. Newt just cannot believe that he’s not realised he wanted his hands all over this. Now, it’s like he can barely moderate his touching. After coming twice, he shouldn’t really be this distracted but fuck, if he isn’t anyway. When Minho has found what he’s looking for and turned around, he sees Newt looking at him and at first he looks embarrassed, but then he switches into the confident version of himself and he rolls his hips a few times like he’s dancing. Newt can’t feel his mouth fall open, but he blushes slightly as Minho comes forward and closes it for him. Then he holds his hand forward and Newt sits up and accepts the gift. It’s a velvet box, a blue one, looking similar to the red one Newt has always had but this one doesn’t make him feel sick to hold in his hands.

“What is it?” he asks, giving Minho a glance.

“Open it.”

And since he’s not getting a better answer, Newt opens it. This box is an actual jewelry box.

Newt looks at the contents for a long time before turning his gaze up to a very expecting Minho. “Did you give me a bracelet with your phone number on it?”  

“...Yes.” Minho twists a little as Newt raises an eyebrow at him but then he takes a breath and sits down next to Newt, a hand on his thigh. “It’s not like I want you to wear it,” he explains, “I actually want you to keep it in the box and I want you to keep that box in the exact same places that you have kept your other one. Since you no longer have that one, I figured you might still need something. This is a substitute. This is what you do when things are hopeless and you want to escape: You bring out your box, you open it, and you use what is inside.”

“I love you, too,” Newt says and it’s free and easy and obvious.

Minho flushes and starts flailing. “Well, no need to- I just-”

“I love you _so much,_ ” Newt says and Minho just stops and stares and then he surges forward to kiss Newt so hard they almost topple over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's just a lil epilogue for tomorrow!


	7. Letting go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the end. Hope you enjoyed it!

You ready?” Minho asks.

When Newt answers, “I’ve never been this ready,” he means it literally. He’s been ready for a couple of weeks, tops, but before this, he never has gotten to this place of serenity before. Minho squeezes his hand and puts his other into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the red velvet box Newt gave him months ago. He watches Newt carefully as he hands it back, his fingers steady and Newt accepts it. He’s only trembling slightly but it’s more of anticipation that it is of fear and he doesn’t need to open the box to know that the scalpel is still in there. He would bet pretty much money that Minho has opened this box exactly once and that was in the presence of Newt. He hasn’t had the need to see, just as Newt doesn’t have now.

When he throws it, it feels like letting go. Letting go of shame over being gay, over being used, over trying to take his own life; he lets go of Thomas Stephens.

It lands deep down in a giant skip at the dump and Newt can only see it as a small, red dot when he squints down.

“How did that feel?” Minho asks and bumps his shoulder.

Newt screams a little then looks at him with a grin. “Pretty fucking amazing.” Minho smiles softly and Newt can’t help but lean in and kiss him. Minho emits a quiet whine when he does and Newt smiles against his lips.

They walk away hand in hand and Newt has no regrets. He knows there are a million scalpels and knives and sharp, pointy things in this world that he _could_ use too, but he knows that he won’t. That box, with that instrument, has been “the one” and now when it is gone and unreachable, discharged, Newt cannot imagine finding something else to do its job. And, he has another thing, another box, with another way of releasing his demons and he intends to hold on to that one for as long as he possibly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might write a lil continuation, a year or so into the future. We'll see

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see in this chapter, not all tags apply, but I think it's better to but them all in there immediately because they will be in the fic at a later stage.


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